


Saudade

by GoodIdeaAtTheTime



Series: Slowly Moving Forwards [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Confident!Quatre, Duo and Trowa Bromance 5eva, Duo is a terrible bro, M/M, Mentions of Underage Sex, Trowa is a good bro, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but he tries very hard, circus shenanigans, thin line between being a good wingman and interfering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 06:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 65,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11352189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodIdeaAtTheTime/pseuds/GoodIdeaAtTheTime
Summary: The summer following the Barton Uprising, Duo joins Trowa to tour with the circus around Europe. It's an attempt to run away from issues, instead of dealing with them, and Trowa finds that in helping Duo face up to his problems, he works through a few of his own. Things are muddling along nicely, until Duo decides to help with Trowa's love life.Saudade: a Portuguese word for a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves.PREQUEL TO SALVAGE.





	1. Lisbon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mariana_oconnor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/gifts).



**** It was barely eight in the morning, but it was already hot in Lisbon. Sat on the wall overlooking the harbour, Trowa could see the heat haze starting to make the pavements shimmer, and his bottle of orange juice was slippery with condensation. It was going to be a sweltering summer.

Watching the large Sweeper barge pull into the docks, cutting a neat line between the other commercial haulers in port, he wondered why Duo had demanded that he meet him on foot, rather than borrowing one of the supply trucks from the circus to come get him. Whatever the reason was, he was familiar enough with Duo to know that it was probably ominous.

Duo had emailed him out of the blue a month ago, declaring that as he hadn’t had a chance to ‘Road Trip with Trowa’ during the war - and also reminding him that everyone else had done - he would hook up with him for the circus’ tour of Europe that summer, and earn his keep whilst seeing places he’d previously only visited “whilst stomping them to shit”. Trowa thought it typical that Duo had told him he was coming, rather than asking if he could come, but the manager, Mr Roberts, had agreed and if Trowa was strictly honest the distraction would probably be welcome.

Also, Hilde had emailed him a few days later, saying only,

_ Take him for as long as you want. Keep him. Feed him to the lions. He’s pissing me off and I think he’s started a Fight Club with my staff. _

Which boded well.

The barge juddered to a stop and ropes were thrown down, so Trowa drained the rest of his juice and began to stroll to the quayside, bracing for whatever he had gotten himself into for the next few months.

By the time he drew closer to the ship, Howard was already stood on the harbour, rubbing his forehead and looking tired - although potentially it could be exhaustion from close proximity to such a garish shirt for extended periods. Who knew?

The balding man settled his sunglasses back into place and caught sight of Trowa approaching, waving to him.

“Hey kid,” he called. “Bang on time.”

Trowa nodded his greeting as he approached, hands in his pockets and glancing curiously up at the ship as Sweepers started trickling down the gangway, some for shore leave, some unloading supplies, some slouching out onto the quay to perch in the shade with a cigarette.

“Duo ready?”

“Yeah,” Howard said, and the wrinkles on his forehead deepened as his voice dropped. “He’s… not doin’ great. Since that whole mess at Christmas he’s been all over the place.”

“He was fine before,” Trowa said, with a raised eyebrow.

“He had Heero to focus on before,” Howard told him gruffly, trying to look like they were talking about something casual and glancing around to make sure Duo wasn’t nearby. “Now he don’t, and he don’t wanna deal with himself. He’s pissed Hilde right off near as I can tell, and rattlin’ around this tin with us for the last few weeks ain’t been easy for anyone, although we ain't taking it quite so personal, 'cause he's one of ours. He’s like broken glass right now.”

“…as in?”

“All sharp edges that won’t fit back together, and he cuts anyone that tries to clean him up.”

Trowa’s other eyebrow raised to join the first, and he looked back at the ship. Now he studied the Sweepers around the place, quite a few of them had bruises and strained expressions. He thought back to Hilde’s email, and the comment about the Fight Club. He’d assumed it was a joke, but now…

“Tro! You made it!”

Duo waved wildly to him as he came down the ramp, driving a small trailer onto the dockside, a huge grin on his face. Casting a final look at Howard, who shrugged resignedly at him, Trowa walked over to meet his friend, eyeing the very large, very bulky tarp-covered contents of the trailer with some suspicion.

A broad grin adorned Duo’s face, and he sported a healthy tan from his time on-ship off the coast of West Africa. To all intents and purposes, he looked happy and relaxed. But, getting nearer, Trowa noticed the shadows under his eyes, the skinned and cracked knuckles that definitely didn’t come from working with machinery. There was a yellow smudge of a fading bruise along his jaw, and his movements seemed a little too fast, and filled with that strange coiled tension that all the pilots had carried, but usually only during a mission or following a battle.

Trowa didn’t say any of this to Duo, however. He merely filed it away with what Howard had told him, and watched as Duo pulled the little trailer to a stop and leapt off it, scurrying around the back to untie the tarp, talking a mile a minute the whole way, dropped letters littering the place, pronunciation the victim of his enthusiasm.

“-an’ I remembered you bitchin’ about having to share a truck with Cathy now that you don’t have Heavyarms to drive around, an’ I thought that it’d be easier for us to get out an explore if we had somethin’ a little smaller than those giant circus trailers anyhow, an’ we wouldn’t be leavin’ anyone short by takin’ the supply truck. An’ these came up cheap an’ I managed to fix ‘em up great if I say so myself, and they run really sweet too…”

The tarp was pulled off with a flourish and Duo beamed expectantly at Trowa, waiting for a reaction. He didn't need to ask which of the two sporty touring bikes was his - even if he hadn't known about Duo's predilection for black, he could see the decal on the side of the red motorbike - a black line drawing of Heavyarms, gatling raised and aimed towards the exhaust. A glance at the black cycle showed a matching white decal of Deathscythe, bright against the paint, scythe extended.

"You bought me a motorbike?" Trowa asked, finally.

Duo rolled his eyes and sighed theatrically.

"Yes, I bought you a motorbike. What d'you think?"

"How much do I owe you?"

"Nothin' - it's a gift!" Duo was getting a little impatient now. "D'you like it or what?"

Trowa stepped closer, crouching to inspect the details, fingers brushing over the lines of Heavyarms on the rich, red metal.

"It's a gorgeous bike," he said, "but it's way too much as a gift."

"'Snot like I've got anything else worth spendin' my money on," Duo joked, although it fell a little hollow. "Take it, see it as a thank you for all the times you saved my ass. And it’s partly selfish – I need a riding buddy."

“Well. Thank you.” Trowa picked up the matching red helmet that was sat on the trailer beside the bike and straightened. “I guess this is how we’re getting back?”

“Fuelled up and ready to go!” Duo grabbed his own, naturally, black helmet with a grin. “Just need a destination!”

That was something Trowa could provide.

 

*

 

The trip back to the circus only took about half an hour, but Trowa didn’t realise Duo had installed microphones in their helmets until they drew up to the Big Top and a low whistle cut through the speakers.

“There she is,” Duo observed, voice microphone-crackly. “Hey, can I help feed the lions?”

“If you like,” Trowa said, and then Duo’s strange silence was gone as they pulled the bikes up and killed the engines.

“Thanks again for havin’ me,” he said, tugging his helmet off and brushing his bangs back into place. “This is gonna be fun.”

“It’s going to be work,” came Cathy’s laughing voice, and she appeared around the side of a trailer, arms folded. “There’s no slackers in the circus, no matter how fancy their ride is.”

Duo grinned at her as he got off the bike and held out his hand to greet her, but she knocked it aside and gave him a hug.

“There’s no such thing as personal space here either,” Trowa told him, as Duo squeezed her back, lifting her up and spinning her around.

“I’ve spent three weeks on a boat full of Sweepers,” Duo drawled, setting Cathy down and getting a thumped arm from her as she moved away. “I’ve forgotten what personal space is.”

“Bobby’s been waiting for you,” Cathy said. “You’d better go check in, then we can get stuff ready for tonight before it gets really hot.”

Duo pulled his duffle from one of the storage cases mounted on the bike, replacing it with his helmet, and looked expectantly at Trowa.

“Sign me up, then,” he said cheerfully. 

Trowa liked being part of the circus. In simplistic terms, it wasn’t too different from being in the mercenary troupe. There was a lot of travelling, and everyone looked out for each other. They didn’t work by quite the same rules as the outside world, but everyone knew their job and made sure it got done. It was a fairly easy existence, as far as Trowa was concerned – no-one asked more from him than what he could give, and he had a structure and routine of sorts, and a support network if he ever needed it. He didn’t have to think too much about the future, in fact it was a life almost outside time, and the shelter was definitely a luxury he’d not had before.

Life with the Sweepers must have been fairly similar, because Duo slipped into things with relative ease. He picked up the tasks quickly – not a surprise – but he also picked up the interactions, relationships between people.

By the time the show started that evening, Duo was working as though he’d always been part of the troupe, scaling the wires and setting up and dismantling equipment as fast as if he’d been doing it for years. By the time the show had finished, he’d charmed just about everyone in the team and a couple of the audience too.

Trowa had changed back into his jeans and was lounging in front of the camp fire when Duo sauntered out of the shadows, chuckling to himself.

“Finally get them to leave?”

“Yeah,” Duo chuckled. “Took some convincing.”

He flopped down in the chair beside Trowa, and stretched. Trowa watched him, the way he bounced one of his legs as he sat and tapped his fingers rapidly, incessantly, the way his eyes darted all around the camp even as he smiled, and his expression seemed tight at the edges.

“You should get some sleep,” Trowa told him eventually, his voice even. “It’s been a long day.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Duo tilted his head from side to side, working the kinks out of his neck, and looking contemplatively into the shadows he’d arrived from, possibly thinking of the girls he’d been chatting to. “Pretty wired. Might go out for a bit. Wanna join?”

“I’m good.”

Shrugging, Duo stood again and strolled off, hands in his pockets and whistling a jaunty tune.

When Trowa woke the next morning, Duo was asleep on the grass outside the trailer, jacket under his head as a pillow. One hand was tucked behind his head, the other rested lightly on his stomach, and his knuckles were redder and more grazed than the day before, and there was a hickey just visible under his collar. He stank of alcohol and cigarette smoke.

He stirred as Trowa approached and blinked up at him, grinning sleepily. The dark shadows were still there – he probably hadn’t been back long, grabbed less than a handful of hours rest.

“Hey boss,” he said around a yawn, his voice croaky. “What’s the plan for today?”

“Packing up,” Trowa told him, studying as he stretched, catching the fresh bruise on his hip as Duo’s shirt rode up. “Heading to Madrid. You should probably shower first.”

“Heh, yeah.” Duo rolled up to his feet and dusted off his shirt. “I’ll see you for breakfast in ten?”

Trowa hummed his agreement and watched him go with a small frown. He began to wonder if Howard hadn’t been understating things a little.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HALLO EVERYONE. I AM BACK.
> 
> \- I have tagged this fic as having mentions of underage sex, but this is based on an age of consent of 18, as I am aware is the case in the USA, amongst other countries. In Europe, the age of consent is much lower, and in the countries that the characters are in throughout this fic, they are above the age of consent in all of them. I have tagged it because it's not my place to play fast and loose with things that trigger people, but I just wanted to explain the mentality behind the things which happen in the story.
> 
> \- ALSO Trowa is very hard to write.
> 
> \- Everything in Europe is closer than you think it is, is the moral of this story.
> 
> Thank you kangofu-cb for beta-reading this! And here is a gift to mariana_oconnor, who wanted more slow burn 3x4.


	2. Madrid, Barcelona

It was early evening when they arrived, pulling their convoy of trailers into the field they’d been granted by the city council. Posters were already up around the streets from where people had been sent ahead the week before to prep.

Duo had seemed in better spirits on the ride across, chatting with Trowa about the sights they saw as they cruised ahead of the trucks. Trowa had to admit, it was better being on a bike than in the truck. Even with air conditioning the trip could get a bit stuffy and draining, but feeling the wind buffet around him whilst he rode, and being able to control his speed meant he could almost squint and pretend he was piloting again.

“Last one there has to muck out the cages,” he said, and then gunned the engine, taking off along the road with a roar.

Duo whooped an answer to his challenge and the next thing he saw was a black blur whizzing past him, sun glinting off the polished metal and dust kicked up behind it from the dry road.

They managed to shave more time than was perhaps wise off the 6-hour journey, and Trowa paused to buy them some water while they waited in the field for the rest of the circus to arrive. Duo took a bottle thankfully and tipped a generous amount over his head, letting it run down the back of his collar where his braid had been tucked away into his shirt, soon to dry out again in the heat. He drained the rest and then reached for another, drinking this one more slowly.

“Wanna go out tonight?” Duo asked.

“How are you getting into all these bars?” Trowa replied with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m eighteen! Probably.” Duo shrugged and grinned.

“Not according to your ID.”

“Not according to  _one of_ my IDs,” he corrected.

Trowa stretched out his legs on the grass in front of him, letting his bike take his weight, and tilted his head to the side thoughtfully.

“Fake IDs? Seems so passé.”

“They’re all fake IDs,” Duo said dismissively, not looking impressed and picking at the label on his water bottle. “Only difference is that I made some of them, and some dude in a Government office made the rest. Not like they’ve got any more idea than I have when I was actually born.” He swilled his water around in his bottle, watching it splash up the sides. “’Sides, I’m a master of infiltration, you think a bouncer on the door’s gonna keep me out? Come on – don’t you get itchy feet? Wanna get out and  _do_ something?”

“I am doing something,” Trowa told him. “I have a job.”

Duo snorted, but was prevented from saying anything more rude as the convoy arrived and began to circle around to form a camp.

 

*

 

Duo didn’t go out that first night in the end, or the night after. Instead he stayed around the camp, and seemed almost entirely like his old self. Cathy was clearly becoming quite fond of him, and remarked that he was much easier to get along with than “those other antisocial guys you showed up with”. Trowa decided not to share this assessment with Wufei or Heero, and at the back of his mind wondered how Catherine would get on with Quatre, now she was no longer trying to protect Trowa from things which went bump in the night. Not that it would probably ever come up again.

Of course, it probably helped immeasurably that Duo had spent a significant amount of time cooing over Catherine’s throwing knives and had definitely impressed her with his own skills. And that he ate her stew like he had been starving for weeks.

When he hadn’t been trying to convince Cathy to turn her solo performance into a double-act, Duo had become quite taken with the tumblers - three brothers and a sister, from Russia - who routinely flung each other around the place after a few drinks. A fair amount of time had also been spent trying to find out what Mr Roberts’ real first name was, refusing to believe anyone could actually be called ‘Bobby Roberts’.

 

Day three in Madrid, the mood was gone.

Travelling together and living on top of each other, the troupe had developed a sixth sense for when someone needed to be given a wide berth. This was self-preservation, born from living with people who threw knives, breathed fire, or routinely had trucks driven over them for a living. No-one wanted to get in the way of a strongman in a snit.

Unlike when he had arrived in Lisbon, Duo wasn’t manic, wound tight and ready to spring. He hid himself in the top of the tent, checking the ropes, wires and lighting all day, looming over everyone like a gargoyle, his mood silent, sullen, black and heavy. After spending all day up there avoiding people, Trowa had been sent up to turf him out a few hours before the performance, because Luisa and Sara had been concerned he would get his bad attitude all over their trapezes.

Sensing that Duo was going to continue making everyone uncomfortable until he stopped broadcasting a solemn death sentence on the world, Trowa put him in the stores, measuring out food for the animals and clearing up. Duo didn’t argue - he didn’t say  _anything_ \- and that was perhaps more disconcerting than anything else.

That night, after the show and clear-up had been done, Duo went out.

Trowa followed him.

Hidden in the shadows by the walls of the bar, Trowa watched as Duo sat on the far end of the counter, alone and clearly radiating a desire to remain so. The shadows Duo sat in were entirely of his own making, and he drank, but didn’t seem to enjoy it. He seemed to be waiting for something, tense and angry.

It took a few hours before Duo’s gaze suddenly sharpened, and Trowa briefly thought he’d been spotted, before realising that the knife-edge expression wasn’t focused on him, but on a group of four men further down the bar, who were crowding around a couple of nervous-looking women and grinning lecherously.

He downed his drink, and slid off his stool, gliding towards them with a promise of murder in his eyes.

“Hey! Why don’t you take your circle jerk outside and leave them alone?”

The group of men tensed, looked around angry, and then saw Duo - still growing, still filling out, all long hair, pretty face and lanky limbs he had yet to grow into. And they laughed.

“Come back when you’ve hit puberty, little girl, and then you can come too,” one of them jeered, in Spanish, and the others laughed, not expecting Duo to understand the words, but the tone was clear.

“You know you can’t claim you’ve been through puberty if you’re sharing one set of balls between four of you, right?” Duo shot back, in flawless if accented Spanish.

The men at the bar took longer to realise that Duo had understood them, and another few seconds before they processed what he had said. One of them swung for him, sloppily, and he dodged with ease, managing to place himself between the men and the women they had been encroaching on, making himself a barrier and opening a gap in the circle for them to get out unmolested.

It didn’t matter too much though, the group’s attention was solely on the braided interloper who had dared question their masculinity. They closed in around him, and he stuck his chin out - stubborn, brash and unintimidated, but still that bit shorter, that bit slighter than the group, and outnumbered.

A bartender appeared, cleaning the surfaces behind them with a dark look on his face, and Trowa for a moment thought that would be the end of it.

But the group hemmed Duo in, nudging him towards the door of the bar none-too-gently, blocking his routes and escorting him. Not that he needed much convincing. He set his shoulders and strolled as if for an evening promenade, and Trowa fell behind them like a shadow.

A handful of yards ahead of him in the street, Duo was hustled around the corner, and by the time Trowa got into position to see but not be seen, everyone had arranged themselves for a brawl.

Duo stood, arms loosely by his sides, expression bored and insolent, but his eyes were the God of Death, Trowa remembered those. Cold, hard, and casting judgement on the unworthy.

The ringleader was a few feet in front of him, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt with deliberate menace, whilst another of the gang stood behind him and slightly to the right. The other two were positioned to the side and behind Duo, blocking his exits, ready to pile on once their boss had taken the swing. Trowa had to give them credit - they were more organised than some OZ and Alliance troupes he had come across.

There was a moment of posturing - there was always a moment of posturing. For the aggressors, this was their pissing contest. Asserting their dominance over a perceived challenger, defending their territory. They flexed their arms, and jeered, spat on the floor and thumped their chests, and looked not unlike apes in their overtly masculine dominance rituals.

Duo watched, and his lip curled in a disgusted sneer, that was all.

A punch, swung in reaction and with a wordless yell, connected with Duo’s jaw. He went down - from a punch like that, stood as he had been, he could only go down if he hadn’t dodged. And he hadn’t dodged - he could have, Trowa knew it, but he hadn’t.

He hit the floor like a professional, going with the force and breaking his fall, using the momentum to roll onto his feet effortlessly and straightening. He wiped his split lip on the back of his hand, and inspected the blood in a detached sort of fashion. And then he looked up. And he grinned, and it was black and hollow and sketched a thousand atrocities in that quirk of muscle.

Less than two minutes later, all four men were curled on the ground, groaning and whimpering helplessly. The punch had been their one free shot.

Kicking the nearest one to him, the man sobbed for mercy and Duo spat in the gutter and walked away, hands shoved in his pockets. Trowa faded back into the shadows - Duo’s eyes were slightly more human than before, but still held something heavy, something polluted and poisonous.

Duo headed to another bar. Trowa went back to the camp.

 

*

 

There was an assumption generally held by people that because Trowa was quiet, he was prone to introspection. This wasn’t true.

Having lived a life where personal identity was a fluid thing, naval-gazing wasn’t a productive way to spend time; when self was defined by context, what did it matter what was inside? Trowa was what he needed to be, what the situation expected him to be. As long as he survived, there wasn’t need for much else, and now the war was over he was like a boat without an engine, drifting wherever life took him, and accepting all outcomes with equal equanimity.

Catherine, whilst she perhaps wasn’t entirely aware of the full extent of Trowa’s disinterest, had somehow picked up on his tendency to let the world dictate his life for him, and she had made it her mission to get him to  _want_ things, to strive for something more than basic survival or completion of the mission. That same force of personality which had stopped him from self-destructing was now driven to get him to self-define instead, to want more than to just exist. But Trowa had only really wanted two things in his life – the first was for Cathy to be safe and happy, and his being at the circus seemed to make her happy, so that was easy enough. The other… well, that had been more than half fantasy anyway, impossible and made of daydreams, so he didn’t dwell on it.

Instead, Trowa spent his time observing people, categorising their behaviours and mannerisms, moods and movements. Reading people had always been a gift of his, and it had helped him blend in and be accepted wherever he had gone. Doktor S had always delighted in that skill, sending him infiltration missions more often than not, because eyes had a way of sliding right off him. So he watched, and remembered, and categorised. At this point, he could almost entirely predict the behaviours of the circus troupe, having been in such close contact with them for so long. There was something comforting in that, reassuring.

He had thought he’d had a similar grasp on Duo’s behaviours as well – all the other pilots, having fought alongside them, seen their stressors and their reactions – but this was something outside his noted parameters. So Trowa watched, and considered.

Duo came back with a few more bruises following the fight Trowa had seen, obviously having continued to pick fights in bars for the rest of the night. But his mood seemed repaired, and he settled back into his cheerful demeanour, the yellowing bruises and split lip the only evidence that he had ever been anything but.

A feeling curled through Trowa and he examined it curiously - dread, anxiety, protectiveness, worry. The same feeling he’d had when Catherine was in danger, was now being generated by Duo. How curious.

He catalogued the emotion, and remembered Heero's advice so long ago. Trowa would admit to being somewhat selective in following it - some emotions were too ridiculous to grant much credence - but perhaps his instincts were trying to tell him something.

He’d never had ‘family’ before Cathy. Apparently he would need to expand his definition.

 

*

 

Across the next two weeks, Duo swung with varying speed between two moods – fast, tense and manic; and dark and angry. In between the two extremes he was himself, but that never seemed to last more than a couple of days, if that.

No matter how he was feeling, he went out at night, and Trowa would follow him.

When he was fast, he danced, he drank, he laughed and he fought and fucked. Usually more fucking than fighting.

When he was dark, he drank and fought.

This continued for the rest of their time in Madrid, and then bled on once they had moved across to Barcelona, three weeks of it from pick up in Lisbon before Catherine caught Trowa in a quiet moment, pulling him aside with a grave expression. One that was usually directed at him.

“I’m worried about Duo,” she said in an undertone, and Trowa nodded, acknowledgement and agreement.

“I won’t let him bring any trouble back here,” Trowa assured her calmly. She shot him a look that was startled, and a little bit guilty, and a smidge annoyed that he had once again managed to glean the meaning she’d tried to hide even from herself. Cathy wasn’t above thinking selfish thoughts, but she liked to pretend she was and wrapped them up in a bundle of overbearing concern. She didn’t like that sometimes she thought things that were so petty, but Trowa didn’t see why. People were petty as a species, displaying it to a greater or lesser extent in individuals, like animals within a breed with stronger or weaker markings. Catherine’s pettiness was like a faint cluster of freckles hidden on the hindquarters of a pedigree. The flaw made her more beautiful individually, and healthier for the variation in genes.

And she always compensated with an excess of genuine concern, made all the sweeter for what she perceived as her failing – to Trowa it just showed that her love never came unearned. There was a pragmatism to her affections that appealed to him, and reassured him, knowing that she would never be blinded to the truth because of bias.

“It’s not just that,” she muttered, eyes sliding to the floor disgruntled and ashamed, before meeting his again squarely. “I saw him taking something yesterday. Pills.”

The emotion that Trowa had been harbouring spiked, cold and sharp through him. Unusual, he noted it, filed it away.

“Huh,” was all he said in response.

“Trowa…”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, to prevent the lecture he could see simmering, one he knew by rote –  _Trowa, you need to stop being so disconnected; you need to have some investment in yourself and your life. Show a bit of spark. Where’s that fire you had?_

She always assumed he’d had fire when he was fighting. Maybe she was right, but more likely it was just that he’d been given a job to do, so he was going to get it done. She conveniently forgot the time she had cut him, because he’d not had the motivation or inclination to move out of the way of her knife. Sometimes he wondered what she would say if he reminded her, finding the discrepancy in her recollections amusing, but then he remembered that she didn’t have the same dark sense of humour he had, one born from a life of fighting and killing, and surviving. There came a point where dying had to be as funny as not dying, because otherwise you ran out of things to joke about.

Perhaps clown had been a poor career choice for him.

That night, Trowa didn’t follow Duo. The braided boy was on day two of a dark streak, apparently struggling to find sufficient penance to exorcise his demons on the first night of fighting.

Waiting for his friend at the edge of the camp, he shredded blades of grass and leaves with his thumbnails, keeping time with mercenary marching songs in his head. He didn’t think about what he was going to say, there was no need to rehearse the truth, and Duo wouldn’t want sugar coating.

Duo slunk back at about 1:00am – early for him, and he was still shrouded in a cloud. Although his mood was perhaps more medium-grey than the thunderous black it had begun as.

Trowa didn’t bother hiding, and Duo didn’t bother pretending not to see him.

“Y’know, a normal person would’ve just come out with me instead of skulking in the shadows like a stalker,” Duo said, conversationally, stuffing his hands in his pockets and slowing to a stop beside Trowa’s perch. “Didja see anything fun when you were followin’ me? Or didja stay home tonight ‘cause I finally scared you off?”

Of course Duo had known he was there. Trowa’s skill was blending, Duo’s was becoming invisible.

His words weren’t judgemental, exactly, but there was a challenge to them, sharp-edged under the apparently casual tone.  _Do I scare you? Are you afraid for me? Or are you afraid_ of  _me?_

“You’re being stupid,” Trowa told him calmly, dropping a strand of plaited grass to the floor and pushing away from the tree he was slouched against, picking sap and plant matter from underneath his nails nonchalantly. Duo bristled at him, hackles raising from where they had barely been hidden, teeth bared.

“Fuck you.”

“In this mood I think you’d rather fight me,” he observed.

Duo snorted derisively.

“You’d be better fighting me,” Trowa continued. “It’d stop you risking trouble with the police. Stop you bringing local trouble to the circus. Might actually give you some satisfaction.”

“You think I haven’t tried that?” Duo snapped, whirling on him. His braid lashed from side to side as he span, like the tail on an angry lion. Trowa was good with angry lions. “The guys at the yard, the Sweepers – they all tried it. Thought they could help me get it outta my system. What makes you think you’d do any better than them? What makes you think I won’t break you too?”

“I’m not a Sweeper,” was what Trowa said.  _I’m like you_ , was what he meant.

The glare Duo focussed on him was three parts bitterness, two parts consideration. While Duo studied him, Trowa took the moment to shift his feet, adjust his stance minutely and set his weight - ready.

There was less than a split second before Duo’s look switched from considering to decisive, and then he was flying at Trowa with a look of grim determination. Not having been sure when or how Duo would attack, it wasn’t possible to dodge, but by adjusting his stance and shifting his weight, Trowa was able to roll with the hit, allowing the force to move him and using it to carry Duo past him.

Flipping up into a crouch a short distance away, Duo reassessed him as Trowa recovered his stance just as quickly. The silence was taut and sharp, and the grin that split Duo’s face was razor sharp.

“Alright then,” he growled, and leapt forwards again.

This was not the elegant, artistic sparring that Wufei had shown them on Peacemillion, or even the rigorous, testing military fighting Heero had thrown against them. It didn’t come close to the efficient and subtle, but utterly ruthless techniques Quatre had favoured either - his gentleman’s martial arts could cripple when executed with the precision Quatre had over them, all the worse for being so unexpected from such a sweet face, and for being nearly impossible to tell how they were accomplished.

Duo and Trowa had not had formal instruction until their scientists had claimed them, and that had only been brief. Their skills had been honed through the need to survive, through continuing to survive, against worlds that wanted them dead, situations which were possibly even worse than the wars they had fought.

Their brawl was brutal and rough. Unpolished and unrefined, they tussled in the dirt and kicked and punched, scratched and bit and gouged.They went for soft flesh and joints with unerring ferocity, animal instinct driving their targets for a quick finish. Duo’s fingers dug into Trowa's throat, finding his windpipe and squeezing, until Trowa managed to work his hand up to hit the spot on Duo’s shoulder to make his arm go dead, his grip go limp.

Kicking him off, Trowa scrambled to take the upper hand, but Duo’s leg came around and caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head. He rolled, came back up in time to jab a solid elbow into the other boy’s sternum as he flung himself across him.

With Duo winded and down to one arm, it shouldn’t have taken long for Trowa to get a submission, but Duo fought like Trowa would have fought, all remaining limbs and teeth, vicious and unrepentant until finally - finally - he was pinned.

They lay there panting for a while, feeling the bruises throbbing with their heartbeats, Trowa holding Duo in a lock until he had assessed the eased tension in his body, the relaxing of his shoulders and spine.

“‘m alright,” Duo muttered eventually, as if reading Trowa’s thoughts. “Think that did it.”

Rolling off him, Trowa stared up at the sky and listened to Duo grunt as he rolled himself onto his back beside him. The stars overhead winked at them and they could just hear the sea if they concentrated hard, in between the wheezing.

“Thanks,” Duo said finally.

“Want to tell me what all this is about?” Trowa didn’t look at him. They lay side by side staring at the sky, because this sort of thing was easier without eye contact.

“D’you want it alphabetically, chronologically or by genre?” Duo asked, his voice sardonic and bitter.

“Pick one for now, and we’ll work through the rest of them later.”

A gusty sigh was the first answer, deep and annoyed. He heard clothing rustle as Duo moved to rub at his neck, feeling the scratch that Trowa had left there, across his jugular. On the surface, superficial, but in the right spot for the job.

“Do you feel like - like the world feels so fucking _small_ now?”

Trowa didn’t respond. He raised a questioning eyebrow that Duo wouldn’t see, and waited for an elaboration. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Duo plucking blades of grass and shredding them, like he had been doing earlier.

“Small and… insignificant. Sometimes it’s like nothing else I do in my life is gonna matter a damn anyway, so why should I bother? Maybe I should just have fun and do what I like and try everything ‘cause I don’t wanna miss the chance. I feel like I’m crawlin’ outta my skin sitting still, like - I was a  _God_ to these people, I did my time and paid my dues, I can do what I damn well please.”

That explained the manic days. There was another gusty sigh, and Duo dropped his hands to rest on his stomach, on the mangled grass scattered there.

“An’ then other days it’s like - why did I  _bother_ saving this? Everything is so petty - what about it was worth saving? People are still the same shitty species they’ve always been. What’s the point in acclimatising when I know they’re just gonna fuck it all up again and I’ll be right back at square one, with nothin’. Again. So I might as well enjoy myself ‘cause it ain’t gonna be long before I start having to pick up the shit. Again. And…” Duo paused, and his voice was a little tighter when he continued. “And I can’t do that if I’ve invested in something. I’ve done the whole losing people thing, and it ain’t fun. And if  _they_ turn out to be on the other side, then…”

Duo trailed off, sighed again, fell silent. Trowa thought about a confession that Duo had entrusted him with, hopeless and resigned, many months ago; and then thought about Wufei and the Mariemaia army. He moved his arm slightly, bumping it against Duo’s -  _I’m here, I understand, you don’t need to say any more_. Duo’s arm bumped back against his - _Thank you_.

He didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything that needed to be said. Duo didn’t want platitudes, and Trowa couldn’t offer wisdom. He didn’t know any more than Duo, really. He was just another soldier for whom the war had been an opportunity more than a threat.

“That’s the plan, then?” he asked eventually. “Fighting and fucking?”

Duo chuckled, and sat up, bracing himself on his hands and looking down at Trowa.

“That’s not so bad a life, is it?”

“From now on, when you want to fight, find me.”

“And when I want to fuck?”

“We tried that. You accused me of getting my ‘sad’ all over you.”

Duo let out a loud laugh, this one real and Trowa smirked back up at him, reliving briefly the memory of that night, after destructing their gundams, before they went their separate ways. They’d drunk and confessed secrets - a secret for a secret - and then decided if they had to be lonely, they might as well be lonely together.

“Yeah,” Duo said finally, with amusement and affection. “Two hot, flexible guys like us, should’ve been a thing of beauty. We should’ve made Gods weep. But no, you had to make it mopey.”

Trowa propped himself up on his elbows, eyebrow raised.

“You moped as much as me.”

“Yeah, turns out self-pity is an STD. You told me you were clean.”

“I thought you wanted to know if I’d showered,” Trowa said, deadpan. Duo chuckled again, and they fell into silence.

“Duo?”

“Hm?”

“Cathy said she saw you taking some pills.”

Blue eyes blinked down at him, surprised, and Duo creased his eyebrows, trying to remember.

“Oh!” He laughed. “Calcium and vitamin D. Doc advised I take ‘em now - turns out being in zero-G as much as I’ve been, whilst still growing, when I didn’t get many greens as a kid? Puts me a bit at risk, and I dunno if G did anything to stop it. I got a UV light to help too, but they reckon if I take these I should catch up soon enough. They recommended 'high impact exercise’ too, but I don't think this is what they had in mind.”

Trowa studied Duo’s expression. It was the most normal he’d seen him in weeks, but even he had to admit his baseline was off.

“Nothing else?”

“Nah. I wouldn’t. I’ve seen too many people get too messed up over that.” Duo shuddered melodramatically. “And with the shit in my head? I don’t want anything that’s going to send me tripping and keep me trapped there.”

That seemed sensible, and honest. Trowa sat up fully.

“I wouldn’t want to get stuck in your head either,” he said. “You’re fucked up.”

The shove Duo gave him was more of a thump, but it was playful, and they scuffled a bit, grinning and tussling, before they pulled themselves to their feet and tottered back to the trailer.

 

 

Catherine was horrified when she saw Trowa the next morning.

“ _rowa_ what the  _hell_ -”

Trowa lifted a hand to poke at the large bruise that had blossomed on his cheekbone and around the side of his eye. It was vaguely in the shape of Duo’s boot.

“I talked to Duo,” he explained. “The pills are medication. And he’s going to stop going out and picking fights with locals.”

“So he decided to beat on you instead?!” Cathy’s voice had gone slightly high pitched with panic, her eyes flicking all across the injuries on his body. Her fingers twitched towards his throat, where he had a set of finger-mark bruises across his windpipe.

“That was my idea. Seemed more sensible.”

“ _Trowa_ -!”

“Don’t worry, Cathy,” he reassured her. “My costume will cover the worst of it. I won’t scare any kids.”

“That’s not -” She paused, scowled at him for picking up again on the thread underneath the cloud of her worry. He smirked at her, knowing full well that would have been a thought only fleeting and brief underneath her worry for him. But he knew it would be enough to derail her, as winding her up often did when she started fluttering and fussing at him.

And he understood that brothers were supposed to piss their sisters off from time to time. That’s how families worked.

  
  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever thanks to kangofu-cb's patient beta skills!
> 
> \- as with Salvage, this fic was powered by an album. This one was 'Last Night On Earth' by Noah And The Whale.
> 
> \- currently, in Spain, it's legal to buy wine and beer as long as you are over 16 and it's with a meal or your parents are present, and fermented drinks, such as what Duo has there, are restricted until you are 18. So, fake ID gets a run out. The drinking age across Spain used to be 16 entirely, but this was changed in 2010. However, whilst 18 is generally the average drinking age across Europe, the attitudes towards it are usually fairly lax. Underage drinking in private residences is generally allowed, and a lot of bars tend to not be typically very stringent in ID checking. 
> 
> \- Sorry if anyone got a million notes about this updating, things were kind of glitchy on my end.


	3. Nice

“Promenades,” Duo sighed happily, sitting back on the bench and enjoying the view of the beach in front of him. “I think I could spend the rest of my life on a seafront promenade, eating - how d’you say this again?”

“ _ Moules frites _ ,” Trowa supplied. “Mussels and fries.”

“ _ Moules frites _ !” Grinning down at the food in his hand, Duo stabbed a mussel with his plastic fork and ate it with relish.

Aside from seeing the sites, drinking the drinks, and getting intimately acquainted with the locals, Duo seemed to want to try the cuisine everywhere they went. Nice was the place for seafood, and after tucking into Pissaladière, and other anchovy-heavy delights for lunch, the evening seemed to call for a continuation of the fishy theme.

“You’re pretty fearless with your food,” Trowa observed.

“I’ll try anythin’ once,” Duo said. “Can guarantee however bad it is, I’ve had worse.”

On the beach below them, people were still enjoying the evening’s warmth. The crowd from the day had thinned, but was starting to be replenished by people trundling down after work to relax, a few people were setting up barbecues and others drifting to and fro from the vans along the promenade selling  _ moules frites _ and ice creams and burgers.

Since Barcelona, Duo’s mood seemed to have levelled somewhat. Perhaps being able to catch Trowa’s eye when things were getting too much was easier than prowling through town looking for a fight to pick; perhaps being matched up with someone who could meet him hit-for-hit helped too. Whatever penance this was for Duo’s psyche, brawling in the dirt with Trowa, bruises, scratches and all, seemed to be doing the trick.

Strangely, Trowa had found his mood improving as well as a result of their two-man Fight Club. Whether it was the endorphins or the adrenaline, the change of pace, or whether it was just the sense of visceral release, or perhaps the growing bond with Duo that was coming from it, he didn’t know. He didn’t think he actively repressed emotions, as Catherine often accused him of doing, but rather he just observed them and filed them away, acting on them was often of little productive use. But perhaps they had needed something of an outlet, much as Duo’s rage and frustration, and guilt and regret needed an outlet. Whatever the case, he felt lighter afterwards, less numb to the world – noticing the numbness now where previously he had just thought that was how he was. Tendrils of connection were reaching through the cracks, breaking through his general detachment and grounding him.

“We’re not far from Monaco here,” he said, as Duo polished off the last of his  _ frites _ and tossed the empty carton in the bin beside the bench. “We could detour and swing by on the way to Paris tomorrow if you want. Add another country to your list.”

“What, go see a load of superyachts and supercars driven by the superrich?” Duo snorted. “I’ll pass.”

“Up the proletariat,” Trowa deadpanned. “Come the Revolution…”

“Yeah yeah.” Duo grinned wryly at him. “Laugh it up, but let’s not pretend they wouldn’t escort us to the border as soon as they see us. Unwashed undesirables, that’s what they think of us.”

“I don’t believe it’s standard practice to deport someone just because they’re poor,” Trowa said dryly. “You sound like you’re spinning a conspiracy. ‘They’?”

“Y’know.” Duo waved his hand in front of him, sketching a vague picture of this perceived ‘other’ in the air, as though his fingers would be more eloquent than his words. “The Great and the Good. The One Percent. They don’t like us plebs in their spaces, clutterin’ up the place and bumming them out with our lack of unending wealth.” Tilting his head back, Duo squinted up at the few, scattered clouds and pulled a face. “No-one likes to feel guilty for having something, just ‘cause someone else doesn’t have it. So they pretend we don’t exist until it’s convenient to look philanthropic.”

Studying the waves as they rolled in front of them, bright and blue like the sky, Trowa considered this. Considered what he knew of Duo’s past which could have created this attitude, and considered his own experiences. He’d had very little contact with people of wealth and privilege prior to the war. The Bartons, of course, had been thoroughly repellent people, but was that to do with money or megalomania as a genetic defect? The only other people he could think of were Relena, who he barely knew, and…

Next to him, Duo started singing under his breath, a jaunty tune sung with a small sardonic grin. Trowa couldn’t hear all the words, but he caught the phrase ‘common people’ a couple of times.

“They’re not all like that,” he said, finally.

Huffing out a laugh, Duo stopped his singing to smirk knowingly at him.

“How did I know you’d say that?”

“It’s true,” Trowa replied, and was surprised to find a slight stab of annoyance and defensiveness.

“Speaking of exceptions which prove the rule, have you spoken to Quatre recently?”

“Have you spoken to Wufei?”

“…Fuck you.”

“You know he counts as the One Percent too,” Trowa pointed out, continuing the subject out of a petty impulse, an immature reaction to Duo’s earlier comment. “Heir to the Colony and all.”

“You’re an asshole,” Duo told him, standing and scowling, hands shoved deep in his pockets and starting to stomp off towards their bikes.

“Birds of a feather,” Trowa called after him. He watched him go for a moment, then sighed and followed after.

 

*

 

He should have realised that the comment about Wufei earlier would set Duo off again. He had realised, if he was honest, but he hadn’t cared.

The braided man had skulked around the big top whilst the show was on that evening, and then disappeared once the audience had cleared out and the rest of the troupe had dispersed to their own evening activities. Trowa helped feed the animals, and then made his way to where he knew Duo would be waiting.

And he was, sat with his wrists resting on his knees and his face grim, he pushed himself to his feet when Trowa drew closer, and they exchanged curt nods before exchanging punches.

This time, Trowa could feel his own frustration simmering below the surface, as they scuffled and scrapped. Not necessarily at Duo, but at his reaction to Duo’s comment, at what that reaction meant, and all the complicated emotions and troubles attached to it. Gritting his teeth and brawling it was almost like Duo became the physical manifestation of these emotions, and their fight was the catharsis to deal with the rage and powerlessness, freeing him to handle the remaining tendrils with a level head.

Was this how Duo had been feeling the whole time? No wonder he had wanted to fight. It felt like screaming, like kicking something, the only way to expel all the pressure inside him that was  _ there _ and wanting to get  _ out _ .

And when they finally wound down and eventually stopped, he felt the gap where the tension had been. Like relief from a headache he hadn’t really noticed. Trowa stood straighter, somehow. More relaxed. Yogic punching.

Duo slumped down against the trunk of a nearby tree, and reached around it to produce a bottle. He spun the top off easily and took a generous swig before holding it out to Trowa, a peace offering.

“Cognac from the bottle?” Trowa asked, taking it and settling down beside him. “I think that sort of thing’s a crime in France.”

“I’ll bring glasses next time,” Duo said, leaning his head back against the trunk and letting his eyes slide closed. “Sorry ‘bout earlier.”

“Me too.” Passing the bottle back, Trowa stretched his legs out in front of him. “…Are you mad at him?”

“Yes,” said Duo instantly, emphatically. Then he paused, sighed, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “No. I dunno. It’s just so fucked up.”

After another deep swig, Duo held the bottle out to Trowa without even looking and poked consideringly at a bruise developing on his jaw.

“Did Heero tell you what he said?” Trowa asked, taking the bottle and swilling the liquid inside contemplatively, before taking a significantly smaller draw than Duo had. Duo grunted a response, dropping his hands to between his knees.

“Yeah,” he continued eventually. “And, I get it - and I know Treize messed him up bad too, and his colony, but… Why didn’t he come to one of  _ us _ ?”

“He always preferred to handle things alone, on his own terms.” Tilting his head back, Trowa squinted and tried to see the night sky through the thick foliage above them. He could smell the ocean in the air, bringing a refreshing breeze to ease the residual heat of the day. “It took Zero to get him to join us on Peacemillion.”

Duo grunted again and held his hand out for the bottle. Trowa obliged.

“He didn’t even hang around after, y’know? He just disappeared off.”

Trowa knew, he’d been there too in Brussels, had seen Altron disappear as the crowds had rushed forward to celebrate the surrender, the reestablishment of peace. He thought it had been shame, perhaps, and could understand that. He sometimes wondered what he’d have done, in Wufei’s shoes, but then he remembered Catherine, and realised that wouldn’t have happened.

“I heard he joined the Preventers,” he said instead. “Teamed up with Sally Po.”

“Yeah, I heard that too,” Duo sighed. “She’ll be good for him. Sally’s good people, and she won’t take his shit.”

Trowa hummed an agreement and silence fell. Duo picked at the label on the cognac bottle, but it was glued tight so it just flaked off in tiny bits onto his clothes.

“But seriously,” Duo said eventually, brushing the mess off himself, “ _ have _ you spoken to Quatre recently?”

Shrugging a shoulder noncommittally, Trowa suddenly found his knees utterly fascinating.

“He emails sometimes,” he told him. “I email back, and then when he’s next not busy with WEI he emails again.”

“Did you ever tell him - ”

“No.” Trowa cut Duo off before he could finish the question. He’d moved past that now, it was not relevant to his life, and not even slightly feasible so what was the point? Duo hesitated a second before continuing.

“You should, y’know.”

Glancing to the side, he could see Duo looking straight at him, his face serious and his eyes earnest. He honestly wanted the best, and Trowa felt his resolve weaken a little.

“There’s no point,” he said, more gently this time. Duo tilted his head slightly, then settled back against the tree trunk, shifting to get comfortable.

“He probably already knows. He is an empath, after all.”

“Then there’s  _ really _ no point,” Trowa pointed out. “If he already knows and he’s not said anything, then he’s clearly not interested.”

“ _ Or _ ,” Duo argued, “he wants to give you the freedom to act on your emotions without looking like a creepy eavesdropper, or to take away your choices. Wants you to keep your… your own agency.”

“ _ Or _ ,” Trowa countered, “he wants to just pretend nothing has happened and move on with his life.”

“ _ Or _ ,” Duo shot back, “he can also sense you being a giant bitch about it and doesn’t want to push you into something until you can grow a pair and ask him out on your own.”

“Fuck you.”

“Call Quatre and I won’t have to.”

Reaching over, Trowa thumped Duo summarily on the thigh, right in the spot to send pins and needles down his leg. The American chuckled and rubbed at the spot, trying to work the sensation away, taking the opportunity to jab his elbow into Trowa’s ribs as he did so.

“I’m serious though, man,” he said fondly. “I think you’d be onto a winner - ha, did you see that? Onto a Winner? I’m fucking hilarious.”

“Ba-dum tsch,” said Trowa obediently.

“I’m never gonna get my romance of a lifetime, so I need to live vicariously through you,” Duo continued. “But for me to do that, you gotta, y’know,  _ romance _ .”

“Why don’t you call Wufei?” Trowa deflected, and Duo snorted eloquently.

“We were never as close as you and Quatre were,” he replied, actually answering seriously, drumming his fingers on his knees. “It’d be weird me just callin’ him up outta the blue. And ‘sides, it’s not fair to stick that on him right now. He’s  _ clearly _ workin’ through a lot of stuff,” he added sardonically. “Maybe when it’s not all so fresh. Maybe. But you an’ Q-ball were practically fuckin’ married during the war. Trust me when I say, you’re in there.”

Trowa made a noise that was neither agreement or denial, and Duo seemed happy to leave it at that for now. The conversation dropped and they sat in a comfortable silence, passing the bottle back and forth, slowly shifting to lean more heavily against each other to stay upright.

 

*

 

The last of the trucks pulled slowly out onto the road, off to Paris, and Trowa cast a cursory glance over the dried, patchy grass marking where the trailers and Big Top had been, and the detritus of a week’s worth of shows still visible. It was a strange sight, empty and slightly sad, seeing the ghosts of where they had lived for a short time, only to disappear and leave this passing shadow of their existence.

Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to stay somewhere long enough to leave a lasting mark.

He pulled on his helmet and did the clasp as Duo gunned the engine of his bike beside him, chivvying him along, ready to head to the next new adventure. Trowa started his own bike, Duo’s voice crackled through the speakers.

“Just so you know,” he said conversationally, “I sent Quatre a copy of our itinerary for the summer. He mentioned somethin’ about having business in Europe in the next few months, so you never know.”

He tore off, and Trowa’s extremely rude response was nearly drowned out by the roar of the bike and Duo’s own wicked cackle.

  
  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Pissaladière is a type of olive-anchovy bread which is traditional in Nice. Moules frites are everywhere on the French coast and it is amazing. 
> 
> \- Monaco is an interesting country. It's actually a Principality, so its royal family doesn't have a king and queen, but a Prince leading it. Currently it's Prince Albert, who has historically been a bit of a PR nightmare, but his mother was Grace Kelly - Princess Grace of Monaco, as she was titled after marrying Prince Ranier. Before Albert had married, there were worries that if he did not have a legitimate male heir, the country would revert back to French rule. He had lots of illegitimate male children, but there were some wobbles re: his marriage (in that his fiancée tried to flee the country just before their wedding, when another illegitimate child came to light). However! He has now had twins with his wife, and the country is safe to self rule again for now. 
> 
> \- the song Duo hums is 'Common People' by Pulp, and it is amazing. William Shatner did a cover of it, and it was also amazing.


	4. Paris

“Have you seen Duo?”

Catherine looked up from where she was cleaning her knives and tilted her head to the side as she thought.

“No, actually,” she said. “I’ve not seen him all day. Why?”

Trowa’s frown deepened and he glanced around, as if Duo might be concealing himself behind some of the cases and equipment around them. He had been gone when Trowa had woken up that morning, although his bike and clothes were still there. There was no indication of where he had gone, and he wasn’t answering his phone or replying to texts.

“Hey,” Catherine said gently, seeing his expression and standing. “I’m sure he’s fine, he probably just needed a bit of peace and quiet - he’s not exactly had much alone-time since we picked him up.”

He made a noise that was fairly unconvinced and Cathy squeezed his arm reassuringly.

“Give it until after the show tonight,” she suggested. “If we’ve not heard from him by then, we can go look.”

Grunting again, Trowa turned to head back to his trailer, but found himself continuing to walk, until he was tracing a spiral route out from the park the circus was inhabiting, through the streets of Paris around them.

Another hot day, and the pavement was warm through his shoes. The buildings around him alternately offered shade and reflected the sunshine back down on him, twice as punishing for being magnified by mirror-like glass. He called Duo hourly, no answer. Eventually it stopped even ringing out, and just went straight to voicemail. He tried texting but that didn’t break the radio silence either.

He told himself he was being silly, that there was nothing to worry about, no reason for that heavy lump that had formed in his stomach. Duo had been seeming so much better recently, happier and more settled.

But he couldn’t help but cast his mind back to his time as a mercenary. To those days when he would wake up and find a group of his comrades huddled around someone’s suit. Those days when he got sent into the nearest town, tasked to find the nearest undertaker and arrange a swift burial in a pauper’s grave.

It had happened less than a handful of times, but Trowa could remember, vividly. Someone always said “but he seemed  _ fine _ when I last saw him”, and they all talked in subdued tones about how you never could tell, really.

He didn’t actually think Duo would do anything stupid, but then again… you never could tell, really.

By the time he returned to the tent for the show, he had a mild sunburn, a dead phone battery and no more clue of Duo’s whereabouts than he had that morning, just a longer list of places that Duo  _ wasn’t _ .

Catherine grimaced expressively when she realised that he still hadn’t materialised, and squeezed Trowa’s shoulder in understanding. It was harder than he anticipated to switch off his worry and concentrate on the show, and in the end he only managed it when Cathy assured him they’d all head out and help him look afterwards.

Despite it all, she almost seemed pleased to see him so concerned. He’d be annoyed if he hadn’t been otherwise occupied.

  
  


*

 

After the show they had fanned out - Trowa and Catherine; the tumblers - Alexei, Ivan, Sasha and Ana; Sara and Luisa the trapeze artists; Atilla the strongman; and even Giselle the dog trainer had tagged along, giving one of her Afghan hounds Duo’s shirt to sniff in the hopes that he would be able to find a trail. It seemed a little farcical to Trowa, but he appreciated the help so kept quiet.

But there was still no joy. They called it off at midnight, and trudged back to the camp repeating trite reassurances that he'd probably show up tomorrow, that he was probably just out having fun. He was fine.

Duo didn't turn up the next morning. His absence was still conspicuous, and Trowa’s tension grew.

Heading out again, he tried calling and got put straight through to voicemail. Not that that meant anything, he told himself. Duo's charger was still in the trailer, his phone would be long dead by now.

He spent the day showing photographs of Duo to strangers, asking if they’d seen him, only to get apologies and promises to watch out for him. Reassurances that they would have noticed someone with hair like that, but they were sure he’d be okay. Paris was a nice city, they assured him, regardless of their own familiarity with the place. Nothing bad would happen here.

Trowa kept his opinions to himself on the subject, and tried very hard not to think about the large river running through the city.

In a fit a desperation, he even sent a message to Heero.

_ Have you spoken to Duo recently? _

He saw the message had been read, and there was a very long pause before the typing notification appeared. And then longer again still before a message arrived that was too short for such a long period of typing.

_ Not for a few months. Why? _

Trowa was surprised - Duo had treated Heero like his brother, attached at the hip. Hell they’d spent the year before that mess last Christmas together. There was obviously a story behind it, but that was for another time. What he'd got was another dead end.

He contemplated contacting Quatre, but waved the thought aside almost immediately - Quatre would be too busy to reply immediately, and by the time he got the message, Duo could have been found, and he’d be worried for nothing.

It took even less time to dismiss the idea of calling the police to register him missing - he could easily imagine Duo's reaction to being found like that, and it wasn't pretty.

So he kept trudging, went back to the circus for the show, headed out again afterwards. Even more of the troupe came this time, but there was still no success. 

Duo's talent was becoming invisible.

  
  


*

  
  


On day three, Trowa gave in to the inevitable, and turned his attention to the Seine. Wide and murky, it wound its way through the city like a shiver, trailing through the streets as a constant companion. Catherine had admired it, when they’d been setting up the tent in the Bois du Boulogne grounds, saying how beautiful it was.

At the time, he’d been inclined to agree, but that had changed a little, and suddenly he couldn’t stop thinking about all the lives that the river had taken, the fate of any river that ran through a city.

The only consolation was that in the June heat the water levels were fairly low, so the river wasn’t swollen and rushing as it got following heavy rains. It seemed a little less sinister in languid summer.

He set out early, the heavy knot in his stomach stopping him from sleeping anyway, and started by their camp before following the river’s path towards the centre of the city. He wasn’t entirely clear what he expected to see, perhaps Duo washed up on a bank, or floating, although the thought left him a little cold. Either way, he followed it. He passed the Eiffel Tower unseeing, and the Grand Palais. He just kept trudging, one foot in front of the other, eyes on the river, the streets beside it, scanning for just a glimpse, or a clue.  

Trowa wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking, three hours, maybe four, before Notre Dame came into view. The sun was still climbing, it was perhaps mid-morning, and the cathedral seemed to shimmer in the bright light.

Around him, Paris was bustling, tourists crowding to get a shot of the famous window, scurrying between shops and negotiating with the stalls in the street. Chatting and laughing, they clustered across the bridge, over the footpath and against the walls, slowing Trowa further and forcing him to take a bizarre path to get through.

The momentum of the people around him, pushing him forwards and away, drawing him inexorably onwards, meant that Trowa almost –  _ almost _ – missed him. But his subconscious registered before his conscious mind had realised he had seen anything and he stopped, dead, where he was, much to the disgust of anyone behind him.

He ignored the disgruntled mutterings as people barged past him, shooting him dirty looks, and kept his eyes fixed on the spot where his brain was screaming at him to look. And there, as the crowds parted, he saw him.

Sat on the floor, leaning against a building and staring blankly up at the Cathedral.

Duo.

The relief which ploughed through him was staggering, like a full-body impact, and Trowa elbowed his way out of the crowd and into a brief gap of space by a beret stand to a clear view. A gendarme was there, talking in hushed tones to the concerned-looking stall owner and shooting suspicious glances at the dirty, long-haired vagabond sat not 10 yards away. Trowa caught their eyes, tilted his head towards Duo and nodded, once. The gendarme relaxed – the grubby, suspicious transient had a clean, respectable-looking friend, and was therefore less of a potential issue to the neighbourhood.

He approached as though he expected Duo to leap up and run away, slowly, casually, quietly. As he drew near, it became clear that the other boy wasn’t in any shape to be running anyway.

Slumped against the wall, legs straight out in front of him and arms dangling loosely between them, he smelled pretty bad, after three days without a shower, living rough in Paris summer, and he looked worse. His hair was bedraggled, his clothes wrinkled, torn, dirty and with a few stains that looked like blood, and others of questionable provenance. His eyes were red and bloodshot, shadows underneath them, and bruises and cuts were visible all over his skin, promises of the same under his clothes.

But aside from that, it was just the expression on his face. Resigned, blank, hollow, as his shoulders drooped, like there was no energy left in him. Nothing left to give, or care.

Trowa stood next to him for a long moment, but Duo didn’t even look up, and eventually he eased himself down to sit next to him, legs bent and wrists resting on his knees as he looked up at the cathedral too.

“You had me worried,” he said conversationally, after a long silence without Duo acknowledging his presence.

“They wouldn’t let me in,” Duo said, his voice rough and croaky. Trowa glanced at him and saw him still looking at the church. “I guess that’s prob’ly fair, considerin’.”

“I thought churches were supposed to help the needy and fallen?” Trowa mused, sardonically.

The laugh that came out of Duo then was bitter and harsh and agonised.

“Look at it!” He waved a hand violently at Notre Dame, the first movement he’d made since Trowa had arrived, almost a flinch of a gesture. “That ain’t for the needy, that’s for people who wanna pretend the needy don’t exist. They don’t fuckin’ care about where the money goes.”

There didn’t seem much to say in response to that, so Trowa shrugged and let Duo fall quiet again. The crowd milled past them, barely sparing them a glance but managing to avoid them with the unerring precision of not wanting to acknowledge their presence.

“I contacted Heero,” Trowa told Duo, “to see if he might know where you were. He said he hadn’t spoken to you in months.”

The way Duo’s face twisted then was a little alarming. Anger, guilt, betrayal and regret all tangled up together.

“Heero,” he spat. “Fuck Heero.”

Unexpected, although the whole situation there was clearly something out of the norm for Heero and Duo. Trowa sighed and stood, holding a hand out to his friend.

“Come on. Let’s get you home.”

 

*

 

Catherine came and picked them up in the supply truck, and judiciously didn’t say anything as Duo slumped silently against the door for the whole drive back.

It took some coercion, and some abuse of his superior height, but eventually Trowa managed to get him showered, changed into clean clothes, and had even managed to clean out and bandage some of the worse cuts whilst Duo choked down a cheese sandwich and a glass of milk under threat of being force-fed otherwise. The braided boy grumbled a little, but the ride back to the camp seemed to have drained him, and at the end of it he took very little convincing to crawl into bed. He was asleep within minutes.

By the time he slid silently out of the trailer, Trowa felt fairly drained himself, and let out another sigh.

“How’s he doing?”

Glancing up at Catherine, he shrugged expansively.

“Sobering up,” he said. “He’s sleeping. We’ll see what happens when he wakes up.”

She nodded, and fell into step beside him as they headed towards the Big Top.

“And how are  _ you _ doing?”

Trowa frowned down at his feet, and one hand came up to rub his forehead absently, as if it would help the headache he had brewing, a result of three days of fitful sleep and stress.

“I’m… angry,” he started slowly, glancing sideways at her. “Now he’s safe, I’m really angry that he’d do something so  _ stupid _ and risky. That he didn't answer his phone or say anything, just disappeared without… What?”

Cathy was smiling at him, and he hadn't expected that, was thrown. He stopped walking and turned to face her, she mirrored him, smile still there but expression the picture of innocence.

“Nothing,” she said cheerfully, shoving her hands in the back pockets of her shorts and rocking back onto her heels. “I just… I had a feeling Duo would be good for you. I guess I was right.”

He grabbed her elbow before she could walk away.

“What do you mean 'good for me’?”

Obviously that was a redundant question, from the look Cathy shot him, but Trowa had no idea what she was talking about. When he didn't release her arm, she finally decided to expand on that statement.

“You’ve been disconnected, Trowa, for months and months. You don't seem to care about anything much - the most I saw you come alive was last Christmas when you went off to fight again - but since then…” She trailed off, shrugged a shoulder. “I worry about you, and you’ve not connected with anything since you got back. You’ve just been going through the motions, until Duo got here. The last few weeks it’s like you’ve been waking up again. And all this…” An arm sketched a vague circle around Trowa, covering the circumstances of the last three days with a flick of her fingers and a elegant gesture. “I can't think of any time I’ve seen you this worried about someone other than me. It's good to see you putting yourself out there. Letting someone else in.”

It took him moment to process it, staring at her blankly. On reflection, he supposed she wasn't wrong. Even he’d been aware of the changes in himself, perhaps that was as a result of having someone else to focus on, or because he was working through whatever demons he had with someone who had demons just as bad, he didn't know. But…

“We’re not involved,” he told her, firmly, making sure she understood. “We're not in a relationship.”

“That's none of my business,” she sniffed haughtily, extricating her arm from his grip. “I'm not your keeper, I just want you to be happy.” Turning to walk away, she paused and looked back at him with a grin. “But even if it's not romantic, you’ve definitely got a relationship with him. And it's one you're stuck with forever.”

He watched her go in silence, and hated that she was probably right.

  
  


*

 

The afternoon passed quickly without Duo waking up, or even really moving as Trowa wafted in and out of the trailer to check on him. He still hadn’t stirred by the time the show was due to start, and Trowa figured he’d probably just sleep straight through the night.

So when he returned after the show to find the trailer not only dark, but empty, it was like all the air had been knocked out of him.

He made it three long steps out of the door and into the night before he registered the voice over the sound of his brain panicking.

“I’m up here,” Duo shouted. “Chill out, I’ve not gone anywhere.”

Turning, from where he stood he could just about make out Duo, lounging on the roof of the trailer, and he relaxed again, then once more felt the annoyance bubbling under the surface – at Duo, for scaring him; at himself, for overreacting.

“What’re you doing up there?” he called back.

“Got a bit claustrophobic inside,” came the answer, Duo not even bothering to sit up. “It’s nice up here. You should try it.”

Trowa tilted his head, considering the height and the distance. He was still pretty limber after the show, and after a short run, he vaulted up easily. Duo wrinkled his nose at him.

“Or you could’ve, I dunno, climbed up? Like a normal person?” He waved a hand over his head. “There is a ladder like  _ right there _ for exactly that purpose. Show off.”

Shrugging, Trowa strolled across the roof and sat down next to where Duo was lying, jacket under his head, playing with his phone. It was nice up there, quieter. The rest of the camp sprawled out in front of them, and he could see the rest of the troupe going about their business. They didn’t talk again for a long while, and whilst it wasn’t exactly a comfortable silence, the tension from that morning wasn’t there anymore. It wasn’t as strained.

A few clouds scudded lazily overhead, tinged pink and orange in the growing dusk, and Duo sighed heavily, dropping his hands to his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “What I did was a dick move. I just… got some news that threw me, and… I decided not to deal with it. Spectacularly.”

“You’re not wrong,” Trowa agreed. “You are a dick.”

The corner of Duo’s mouth did quirk up at that, a self-deprecating chuckle. The anger which had been coiled tight inside Trowa loosened, the fact of the acknowledgement, the apology, the fact that Duo was safe after the worry of the previous three days seemed to ease him.

“What was it all about?”

Duo didn’t answer directly, instead holding his phone out to him. On the screen was an email from what appeared to be an estate agent, congratulating him on the completion of his sale and saying that the keys to his new property had been left with his appointed contact, Ms. Schbeiker.

“You bought a place?”

“Piece of shit old garage on L2,” Duo said, taking the phone back. “Not sure it’s even got all the walls.”

“How did you find a bank who’d give you a mortgage?”

“I didn’t.” Duo sighed again. “Cash, bought outright. Never even seen it.”

Not the wisest business decision, Trowa reflected, but from the look on Duo’s face wisdom didn’t really come into it. He was frowning up at the sky, as if trying to organise his thoughts, and Trowa let him. If he wanted to talk, he would.

“They were insured,” he said, after another long space.

“Hm?”

“The church,” Duo elaborated, glancing sideways at Trowa briefly, “and Father Maxwell and Sister Helen. They were all insured - had to be, to set up on L2. But.” He pressed his lips together firmly, frown deepening and jaw tightening as he sorted himself out. “But they had a clause in it, the beneficiaries would be the orphans. So if something happened to them, the kids would have a chance.”

They had spoken about their pasts once, swapped stories to kill time. Trowa knew about the church, knew about what happened. This would probably have raked things up a little, if he’d just discovered it recently. Suddenly, even aside from the other things they’d talked about, Duo’s anger made more sense.

“Someone… someone at the Diocese noticed that there weren’t enough bodies for the number of kids registered as staying there,” Duo continued. “So, the money got paid to the church, to be held in trust until they found the kid. Me. Until they found me.”

Beside him, Trowa could feel Duo tensing up, feel the anger and hurt pulling his muscles tight and stiff, defensively. Fight or flight from recounted memories. Thinking back to the mercenaries, Trowa remembered his feelings at the time - dispassionate, disconnected. Midii had accused him of being empty, soulless, and she hadn’t been wrong. Perhaps he wasn’t entirely without emotion, but his ability to be objective in all things could certainly make him appear so.

Certainly, he didn't have anything in his past that made him feel like this, he didn’t think he had ever felt as strongly or as deeply as Duo felt about anything. Keep moving on, don’t get attached, that's the way to stay alive.

He wondered, now, looking at Duo, if he would still be so dispassionate if his past was presented to him. He had never felt that deeply, but would being unused to the emotions make him more vulnerable?

“Heero found out ‘bout it last year, pokin’ around like he does, and ‘parently there was like a 10 year limit they had to hold it for, an’ it was close to expiring or something?” Duo shrugged, the gesture irritable, knocking against Trowa as he did so. “So he didn’t even bother to tell me ‘fore he contacted them, next thing I know I’ve got a letter confirming this money’s been transferred to an account I didn’t even know I had.  _ And _ the interferin’ sonofabitch put my name forward for the damn War Orphan Reparations committee or some shit? So two days later I get  _ another _ fuckin’ letter tellin’ me about even more fuckin’ money that’s been shoved in this account.”

Angry now, outweighing the melancholy, Duo rolled to his feet, pacing backwards and forwards along the trailer roof, the metal bouncing slightly with his steps. His movements were sharp, quick, angry, picking at his hands, chewing his nails, tugging at his clothes. He was scowling into nothing, focussed as he was on the recounting of this story, reliving all the feelings as sharp as before.

“I told him I didn’t want it, and he said he’d keep it for me until I needed it later – fuckin’ bullshit, holier-than-thou, overbearing…”

“Duo,” Trowa cut in quietly, before he could get too distracted.

“Right, sorry, right.” He took a deep breath through his nose, let it out slowly, began again. “I called bullshit on that, anyway, but before he could get the details to me, Hilde found out about it, and she wouldn’t fuckin’ shut up about what a great opportunity this was, and how marvellous it was of Heero to stick his fuckin’ nose in where it didn’t belong, and how this was a chance for me to get my life together…” Duo wasn’t even pausing for breath any more, swept up in his anger. “She couldn’t understand why I didn’t want this fuckin’ money, and why I was pissed about it, kept callin’ me  _ ungrateful, _ an’  _ ignorant,  _ an’  _ short-sighted _ . We got into a full on screaming fight, and then I went out, and got pissed and… and bought this pile of shit and bricks -” he gestured with his phone, “- just to spite her, like, she wanted me to fuckin’ spend the money? Then I’d spend the damn money, and I purposely bought the shittiest piece of crap I could, and let her stew on that. But then I had to keep going through with it, ‘cause I couldn’t let her see I’d just done it ‘cause I was mad…”

Pausing, he sighed heavily, let his shoulders slump a bit.

“Got all the way to signin’ the damn contract, then I just sorta ‘lost’ it on my desk before I came down here,” he muttered, picking at a ragged thumbnail. “Thought it’d just drop ‘fore I got back, but I guess she found it and sent it off for me.”

He spun suddenly, spreading his arms wide wildly, questioningly, braid whipping behind him.

“Why the fuck do people keep interfering in my life?” he demanded, anger flaring again. “It was none of their business about that money, I sure as shit would’ve been happier if I’d never known about it!”

Trowa stood and placed a soothing hand on Duo’s shoulder, feeling the rage vibrating through his muscles.

“They just want what’s best for you,” he tried, but Duo flinched away from his touch and scowled at him.

“I don’t care what  _ they _ want!” he snarled. “What about what  _ I _ want?”

“Do you even know what you want?” Trowa asked mildly and Duo scowled at him.

“That’s fuckin’ rich coming from  _ you _ ,” Duo spat, eyes flashing. “When was the last time you did somethin’ that you hadn’t been ordered to do? When did you last do something because you wanted it? Do you even want things? You’re like a fuckin’  _ robot _ sometimes, wasting your life away because you don’t even care -”

The sound of the punch cracked through the night like a gunshot, and Duo stared up at Trowa from where he was sprawled on his ass, slightly dazed. Trowa glared down at him, fist still clenched and face for the first time in months, years maybe, showing the full depth of his feelings.

“I did that because I wanted to,” he said, voice full of cold fury.

His hands were trembling he was so mad, the worry of the last three days combining with the flash of hurt and anger at Duo’s comments, with the memory of Midii’s words so recently recalled, with his own regrets and self-loathing. In all the times they had fought since he’d joined up with them, this was the first time Trowa had hit him because he had wanted to hit  _ Duo _ . And he couldn’t even regret it.

Slowly, Duo brought his hand up to his face, and pressed it to his nose, examining the sticky blood that coated his fingers when he pulled them away. He was silent for a long moment, and then, suddenly, he laughed.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “I bet you fuckin’ wanted to. And I bet it felt good too.”

Trowa relaxed slightly, surprised, and then he laughed too, tension dissipating as if it had never been there.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “It did.”

He settled down next to Duo again, who was probing his nose for a break, and then tilted his head back, pinching the bridge to stem the bleeding.

"Aw man, I’m such a fuckup,” he sighed.

“Yeah, you are.”

“I thought I’d screwed things forever with Hilde,” Duo confessed, his voice comedically bunged up as he held his nose. “Can’t decide if her sending those forms off for me is her tellin’ me all’s forgiven, or her givin’ me one final ‘fuck you’.”

“There’s an easy way to find out.”

“Yeah.” Another deep sigh. “Guess I’m gonna have to go see her anyway, to get the keys.”

There was another long silence, and Trowa glanced at Duo out of the corner of his eye.

“...And Heero?” he asked finally.

“...I  _ really _ fucked things up with him,” Duo said bitterly. “Don’t think that’ll ever be fixed. An’ I’m still pissed at him anyway.”

“You can be pissed at someone and still want them around,” Trowa argued.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

“How else do you explain me letting you stick around here?”

Duo glanced at him, surprised, and then he laughed. Thumping Trowa’s thigh with his free hand, he tipped over and ended up slouched against him, both of them chuckling together.

Perhaps they weren’t quite fixed, but maybe they were on their way to being not quite so broken.

  
  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I like to think Notre Dame would have taken Duo in even if he was looking particularly like a vagrant, but I suspect he was also being angry and rowdy, so no entry for him.


	5. Brussels, Amsterdam, Prague

Duo scowled at the buildings across the park from them as he finished pulling the guide ropes tight on the Big Top.

“It’s not Brussels’ fault,” Trowa told him, straightening up and securing the pulleys.

“What’s not Brussels’ fault?”

“Whatever it is that’s got you pulling that face.”

The scowl deepened as Duo stood, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to soothe the rope burn across his palms.

“I thought the whole point was to see places you’d only seen whilst blowing them up,” Trowa added. “Surely this is prime target number one, given Christmas.”

“Think I’m gonna just stick around the camp,” Duo told him, sullenly. “I’m not bothered ‘bout Brussels.”

Falling into step behind him, Trowa feigned innocence as they weaved through the other members of the troupe in full set-up mode.

“I can’t imagine why,” he said, voice light and airy. “There’s a lot of culture to be had here - it’s the political centre of ESUN, so you might even see the Vice Foreign Minister - although she’d never be seen dead without her bodyguards, naturally…”

“Relena’s in Canada,” Duo snapped. Which meant, of course, Heero wouldn’t be far behind. And also meant that Duo had been checking, to see if he was free and clear of that particular awkward meeting.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Trowa sighed, melodramatically, before pepping up again. “Well, never mind. Did you know, Brussels has the global HQ for the Preventers? What a cultural experience  _ that _ would be! I hear they even have  _ Gundam Pilots _ on staff. Maybe we could catch a glimpse...”

“You’re the worst fucking clown,” Duo said. “No wonder they get Cathy to throw knives at you.”

“I think I’m hilarious,” Trowa told him mildly, and smiled beatifically in response to the eat-shit-and-die glare that Duo turned on him in response. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the delightful bruise that was still spread across the braided man’s face, tinged greenish around the edges now but still beautifully purple in the middle.

Cathy pursed her lips whenever she saw it, in the way that made it clear she Did Not Approve, but Duo seemed to be happy enough to let it go. He and Trowa were settling into a comfortable routine of sniping at each other all the time, to the point that people had started to throw things at them when they really got going, just to get them to shut up.

True to his word, Duo stayed in the camp for the first few days of their stint in Brussels, rather than going out exploring or drinking. He stayed in the shadows before and after shows so as not to be seen by the crowds, and the rest of the time was spent doing chores around the site, fiddling with his bike, or learning a tumbling routine with Alexei, Ivan, Sasha and Ana – alternating between flinging them or being flung into the air himself. Otherwise, he was challenging Trowa and Cathy to knife-throwing contests or generally bothering other members of the troupe to teach him the tricks of their trade.

And, aside for being a little more alert around crowds, he didn’t seem to be suffering for his self-imposed restrictions. Trowa wondered if Paris had been a turning point – if Duo had hit his lowest and was starting to regroup, rebuild.

The test to that theory came a lot sooner than Trowa expected, however. Three days after they arrived, on another bright, beautiful afternoon, Trowa rounded the corner of their shared trailer and then immediately scurried back into the shadows.

Duo was sprawled on the floor, tinkering with his bike, and on the edge of the park, a short distance away and frowning slightly, was Heero.

The distance was too far for Trowa to entirely make out his expression, and it wasn’t clear whether Duo had noticed him yet or not, but Heero seemed to be wrestling with something. Fists loosely clenched at his sides, he stared intently at Duo, almost made to walk forwards, then hesitated. Glancing around, he nearly turned to leave, before shaking his head sharply, setting his shoulders and striding resolutely across the grass.

Torn between moving forwards to intervene and retreating to give the pair privacy, Trowa ended up remaining frozen where he was, straining to hear.

“I’ll be right there,” Duo said, head still underneath his bike as the shadow fell over him. “Has Alexei managed to get that twist sorted yet? I said I’d help him with that later.”

“...I don’t know,” Heero replied, and it was like a bolt of lightning through the braided man sprawled on the floor.

In his haste to sit up he managed to smack his head on the bike with a loud cuss, and then scramble out from underneath it in a very undignified manner, staring up at Heero in astonishment.

“I thought you were in Canada,” he managed, finally, sat on his ass and rubbing his forehead. Heero shifted awkwardly on the spot.

“Quatre sent me your itinerary,” he said by way of an answer. “And… after Trowa’s message the other week, I wanted… I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine. As you can see.” Duo stood himself, stiffly, avoiding meeting Heero’s gaze. He rubbed his hands on his shorts before stuffing them in his pockets. The Japanese man looked pointedly at the visible bruises on Duo’s skin, but Duo ignored him. “So. Job done.”

“I also,” Heero began, then stopped. He scowled at the floor, looked around helplessly and Trowa wondered if he’d been spotted as he gaze slid over the edge of the camp. But no, he was just looking for inspiration, it seemed, or resolve, and he began again. “I wanted to apologise. About the whole… money thing. It’s been made clear to me that I handled that badly, and I realise I upset you.”

Trowa snorted softly from where he was hidden. He had a strong suspicion that Relena had got the whole story out of Heero, and she had never been one to mince her words when she thought something was stupid. Apparently Heero’s apology technique hadn’t changed much since he chased an entire family around Europe - direct, saying everything he needed to say before he could be interrupted, then waiting for the fallout.

“I was a jerk about it too,” Duo muttered, shifting awkwardly and looking like he dearly wished to be anywhere else, talking about anything else.

“No,” Heero said forcefully, stepping forward and startling Duo with his vehemence. “I didn’t realise that there were… social conventions associated with discussing money, and I managed to break most of them. I want you to know that I didn’t mean for you to feel like I thought you weren’t rich enough, or that you weren’t good enough…”

“Aw, Heero, no,” the braided man said hastily, stumbling backwards to try and regain his personal space. “No, it wasn’t anything like that. I’m poorer’n dirt - always have been, always will be, no matter how much cash I got - it’s my blood, and I ain’t got no problems with that -”

“Well, I’m sorry I took liberties with your personal finances, and didn’t tell you, and made arrangements on your behalf without consulting you.”

“Ah, yeah.” Duo rubbed the back of his head. “That kinda sucked.”

“And… I’m sorry I didn’t apologise sooner,” Heero finished, dropping his gaze and obscuring his eyes behind his ever-messy hair, and his voice became hesitant. “I was afraid that you wouldn’t forgive me, because you were so mad. So I put it off as long as possible - but then I got Trowa’s text, and I worried that something had happened to you. And if it had you wouldn’t know that I was sorry. So. Sorry.”

The last Christmas, the last brief skirmish of a war, Trowa hadn’t really had a chance to speak to Heero. Listening to him now, it was clear that the year he’d spent with Duo had changed him, softened him. Certainly made him more loquacious. It also wasn’t lost on him that Heero seemed to have picked up some of Duo’s speech patterns. He wondered, vaguely, if the Japanese man would be so verbose if he knew Trowa was listening, or if this was saved for the intimacy of close friendship.

“Look, buddy,” Duo began, and then stopped himself, overwhelmed and at a loss. He fidgeted on the spot, scrubbing his hand over his mouth and chin, before scratching at his neck and clearing his throat, starting again. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t just  _ you _ I was mad at. Don’t get me wrong, I was pissed as fire -” he added, shooting a glance at Heero, before returning to study his bike. “But… It wasn’t so much that I  _ had _ the money as it was that it existed in the first place? I didn’t  _ want _ the cash. I wanted what I’d had to lose for it to be there.”

“...Oh.” Heero looked a little surprised, then thoughtful, then his face softened in a way Trowa had never seen before, sympathetic and slightly sad. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and this time he meant it as an understanding.  _ I’m sorry for your loss. _

Duo waved it off awkwardly, but turned away and tried to gain control over his expression.

“It just -” he started, but his voice was tight and he had to clear his throat again, “it just brought up a lot of things I thought were done with, is all. An’ I didn’t handle it well. An’ then I handled it worse.” He paused, chuckled wryly and turned back to Heero, gesturing at the bruise on his face. “An’ then I stopped handling it at all.”

Stepping forward hesitantly, Heero reached out and, when he wasn’t stopped, gently brushed his fingers across the bruise.

“Fighting it out again?” he asked quietly.

“You know me so well,” Duo said ruefully. “Man, Heero, I’m such a fuckup. I dunno how Tro’s puttin’ up with me. I didn’t… I didn’t know how to fix this. An’ I didn’t think you’d come back.”

There was a moment of pause, of questioning, then Heero pulled Duo into a rough hug, which the braided man returned after a split-second of surprise, his body thrumming with relief.

“I’ll always come back,” Heero insisted gruffly. “That’s what family does, isn’t it?”

“Like I would even fuckin’ know, I am the  _ worst _ person to -”

“Oh shut up, Duo, it is, alright?”

“...Alright.”

Trowa turned away, leaving the two of them clinging to each other, certain now that it wasn’t going to end badly without his intervention. He smiled to himself, as he gave them their privacy. This wouldn’t fix everything - Duo had enough demons to deal with aside from this - but it would go a long way to putting some of the worse ones to sleep.

When Duo finally reappeared around the camp a few hours later, he was subdued but not dark. He seemed to be slightly in shock perhaps, but a pleased one. He didn’t tell Trowa what happened right away. Trowa didn’t ask.

But when Heero was waiting for them after the show, it didn’t take much convincing for the three of them to go out for dinner. And things were almost normal.

 

*

 

The brownies came from a shop one of the Sweepers had recommended to Duo, after his last visit to Amsterdam. They were potent, the woman in the shop had warned, so she had only sold them two little ones, and then some normal brownies for when the inevitable munchies kicked in.

So that was how they found themselves that night, after the show, lying side-by-side on the roof of the trailer and staring up at the cloudless sky, waiting.

“How long’s it been?” Trowa asked finally. Duo looked at his watch.

“Two hours,” he replied. “I think this is as buzzed as we’re gonna get. Sorry man, I tried to get a bit more, but I couldn’t exactly use ‘I’m extra resistant to narcotics because some mad genius turned me into a killing machine before I hit puberty’. Like, it’s the worst super power.”

“It’s okay,” Trowa said. He took stock of himself. He didn’t feel too different – he’d definitely been more drunk in his life than he was currently high – but he was still feeling fairly relaxed, mellow and comfortable, rather like he’d been wrapped in a nice warm blanket. “Probably for the best. ‘S like you said, don’t wanna get stuck in our heads if it goes wrong. Better to be safe.”

“Yeah.” Duo sighed next to him. “Still, this was s’posed to be one of the okay ones. I guess it is okay, but it was supposed to be, I dunno, somethin’ else too.”

Trowa reached over and patted him companionably on the arm.

“You tried. Gold star for effort.”

“Thank you, thank you, ‘preciate the recognition.”

Silence fell, but it was relaxed and unhurried. The world had a slightly marshmallowy texture, it seemed to Trowa, everything soft and pleasant. Beside him, Duo started humming absently to himself, tapping his fingers on his stomach to a different rhythm entirely.

Whilst they had been in Brussels, Heero had stopped by every day, each time for longer. By the end of the week he’d spent the whole day there, helping out and keeping them company. Trowa didn’t flatter himself that the attention was because of him, but he enjoyed it all the same - he had always got on with Heero. They shared a similar sense of humour, and way of thinking. Prior to this trip, he might have said he got on better with Heero than Duo. He’d enjoyed antagonising Duo during the war, and he was fairly certain Duo had enjoyed antagonising him. Now, though, he realised that was how Duo showed affection - the casual give and take of abuse - and it made Trowa rise to the challenge. Before, he could have gone whole days barely speaking more than a few obligatory pleasantries with Cathy.

It was another change that Duo had brought about in him, so subtly he hadn’t noticed until he caught Cathy watching him and smiling.

Since Duo’s reunion with Heero, they hadn’t fought much. Duo hadn’t seemed to need to -  a couple of half-hearted scuffles, which had ended with them sitting and watching the stars, sharing a drink. More often, they’d skipped straight to watching the stars and the drink. The braided man had gone out partying a couple of times after that, when Trowa had rolled into bed, but he seemed to be riding a high almost, living in the moment and chasing opportunities.

For his part, Trowa found himself aware of his surroundings in a way different to before, and aware of his own thoughts and feelings as  _ feelings _ , rather than just as muted impulses, observed from a distance and then filed away.

“What’cha thinking ‘bout?”

Trowa rolled his head to the side to look at Duo, before letting it loll back so he could watch the fluffy clouds drifting lazily across the stars above them.

“About how I think you coming here has helped me, as well as helping you,” he said. “And how I wonder if maybe I was just depressed for those years, which was why I felt so numb to everything, and maybe working through your problems has helped me start working through mine. And how, before, the only time I really ever felt anything fully was… was with Quatre. And that’s a lot of pressure to put on someone. But now, maybe, I can do that for myself, so… so if I ever saw him again maybe I’d be someone worth something, rather than a dead weight.”

He turned to the side again, saw Duo staring at him, wide-eyed and stunned. He frowned.

“What?”

“I think you’re more high than you think you are, to tell me all that.”

Trowa considered this carefully for several seconds.

“...Maybe,” he allowed. “Why? What were you thinking about?”

“What if we all have superpowers.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Trowa started sniggering, and Duo’s lopsided grin turned into a loud, deep belly laugh. It took several minutes, and a disgruntled shout from the next trailer over, to quiet them down into gentle titters.

“Go on, then,” Trowa said, with the air of someone unlikely to be convinced, “why do you think we all have superpowers?”

“No, wait, listen,” Duo began, “I’ve thought really hard about this, and I legit think I’m onto somethin’. Y’know how Q’s got all that Newtype empathy thing goin’ on, right?”

“...Yes?”

“Well,” Duo continued, warming up to the subject and becoming more enthusiastic, waving his hands as he spoke like he was conducting his own discourse, “ _ well _ , what if we all got picked to be Gundam pilots ‘cause we got some kinda Newtype power? I mean, why else would someone like me get in, next to all you guys with trainin’, an’ education, an’ experience an’ shit?”

“Duo…”

“For serious, though, like - Heero’s pretty indestructable, that ain’t all J’s work. Or how he’s got the stamina of a literal machine. An’, like, how quick Wufei is, or how for you and him gravity seems to be entirely optional.”

“That’s just training and good leg muscles,” Trowa scoffed.

“Alright, fine, but how d’you explain how many times you went undercover in OZ bases and no-one ever noticed you?” The braided man retorted. “They weren’t  _ that _ stupid. Or what about that Dr Dolittle shit you can pull?”

The taller man pulled a face, and opened his mouth to respond, but realised he didn’t actually have an answer, and that irritated him a little.

“Okay,” he said finally. “So what’s your Newtype speciality?”

“My devilish good looks and irresistible charm, obvs,” Duo said with a filthy grin and a waggle of his eyebrows. Trowa’s expression spoke volumes on that answer, and he laughed good-naturedly. “Naw, I dunno. Maybe how I can hide so well? Like, even when I was a kid, if I didn’t wanna be found, I wouldn’t be.”

“And you don’t think there’s any reason you could’ve been picked as a Gundam pilot other than that?” Trowa asked, gently, wondering if Duo realised how much he learned in so short a space of time after he was recruited, how a lifetime’s experience and training in the rest was covered in fewer than a handful of years by Duo - surpassed, even, in some areas. Could he not see that?

“Well, I mean, G was mad as a box of frogs, so that prob’ly helped…”

“Do you know what an ‘inferiority complex’ is?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of ‘em,” Duo said blithely. “Never thought I was important enough to have one though.”

He turned to Trowa with a big cheesy grin, pleased at his joke, and got a thump in the arm in return.

“I’m glad you think me bein’ here is helpin’, though,” he added, rubbing the spot where Trowa had hit him. “I kinda feel like I’m a pain in the ass most of the time.”

“You’re a pain in the ass all the time,” Trowa reassured him. “But I kind of like you anyway.”

“I kinda like you too,” Duo told him, reaching over blindly to swat at his arm in what was probably supposed to be a companionable way, but was a little too lacking in finesse. “I’mma find you a nice boy to settle down with to say thank you.”

“I don’t want a nice boy,” Trowa said, the confession sneaking out before he’d realised it. “I want Quatre.”

“...That is literally who I was talkin’ about,” Duo said dryly, looking at Trowa like he was stupid. “Like, seriously, I’m not certain there’s anyone nicer ever been born.”

“Oh.” Pause. “I guess he is pretty nice, isn’t he?”

“Oh my god.” Duo hid his face in his hands and started laughing in disbelief. “Oh my  _ god, _ you’re ridiculous when you’re high.”

“Fuck you.”

“You don’t want that. I’m not  _ nice _ enough.”

“No,” Trowa agreed emphatically. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“I’m  _ your _ pain in the ass.”

“I’m going to post you back to Brussels,” Trowa declared around laughter, swatting at Duo, who had decided to try and crush him in a bear hug. “You can be Heero’s problem again, I’ve had enough of you.”

“You don’t mean that,” Duo crooned, “you’d miss me too much!”

“Like hell!”

“If you two don’t  _ shut up _ I am going to get the hose!”

They froze, Duo half-sprawled on top of Trowa, Trowa trying to push him away. They were silent for maybe ten seconds, before they started quietly snickering again, trying to shush each other whilst dissolving into giggles themselves.

For their own safety, they decided to scramble down off the roof and go for a walk until they could be trusted back in the camp. Or at least until Atilla had gone to sleep.

  
  


*

 

“What the fuck happened to you?”

They had taken a more leisurely route from Berlin to Prague, as Duo had insisted they make time to visit the Currywurst museum. The power of their bikes had helped them make up time, and they arrived at the campsite a couple of hours behind the rest of the circus. Apparently it had been an eventful two hours.

Ivan looked down at the large air boot on his leg, then grinned sheepishly at them.

“I fell out of a tree,” he said, as if it explained everything. Behind him, Ana rolled her eyes so hard they could almost hear it, whilst Sasha and Alexei shrugged. “It is not so bad. It is not broken. But, I do have to wear the boot.”

“For  _ six. Weeks _ ,” Ana added, clearly unable to get over her brother’s ridiculous plight.

“I think you have not seen Bobby yet?” Sasha said to Trowa. “He was going to ask if you would mind filling up our time with one of your other acts - perhaps with the lions - until Ivan is better. Or we can work out a routine for the three of us instead.”

Trowa began to nod, then paused.

“What about Duo?”

Duo stared at him, surprised at being suddenly dragged into the conversation.

“What about me?”

“You’ve been practicing the routines with them, haven’t you?” Trowa asked, glancing at Sasha who nodded confirmation. “You’re the same height as Ivan, and near enough the same weight -”

“He will be lighter, because he does not have  _ rocks _ where his brain should be!” Ana said, and Ivan shoved her in response.

“That could work,” Alexei agreed, studying Duo thoughtfully. “You know all the catches and throws.”

“That’s in  _ practice _ ,” Duo argued, not looking convinced at all. “I can’t perform! I don’t know anything about performing!”

“It is exactly the same,” Sasha told him, waving off his concerns. “The only difference is that you will be wearing the sparkly outfit.”

“You cannot just replace me!” Ivan cried, although it was half-hearted. “It would be like replacing Ringo Starr from the Beatles.”

“Ringo Starr  _ was _ the replacement in the Beatles,” Ana told him with some satisfaction. “You are the old drummer, and Duo is Ringo Starr, who we are bringing in, because the old drummer was stupid and fell out of a tree.”

“You take that back!”

Sasha, Alexei and Ana swept up Duo and headed off to find Bobby, bickering and discussing plans for the act. Trowa was left alone with Ivan, and levelled him with a curious look.

“Why, of all the Beatles you could pick, did you pick Ringo?”

“I like Yellow Submarine,” Ivan muttered defensively. “It is a fun song.”

  
  
  


*

  
  


The crowd was still cheering as Duo stumbled out of the ring four days later, sweaty, flushed, and covered in glitter. Ana, Alexei and Sasha all seemed pleased, patting him heartily on the back before heading off to wait for the curtain call at the end.

“Holy shit,” he declared, dropping to sit down next to Trowa on the costume box, stealing his bottle of water. “That was a fuckin’ rush. That was amazing. No wonder you keep doin’ this,”

Snatching the water back, Trowa snagged a fresh bottle from the pack beside him and passed it to Duo.

“Enjoy yourself?”

“It’s pretty nice to get an adrenaline rush from somethin’ people want you to do,” Duo told him, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a long drink. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I mean, I’ve had bigger rushes, but I don’t tend to get positive feedback, y’know? Man, I’m buzzin’.”

Trowa chuckled, watching as Giselle lined her dogs up ready to go out once Atilla had finished being run over by the truck.

“Congratulations on your debut, I guess,” he said, holding his bottle up in a toast. Duo gave him a lopsided grin, and knocked his bottle against it in return.

“Maybe I should just stay here permanently,” Duo mused, sliding down onto the floor and leaning back against the box, letting his legs and arms flop. “Sell the garage on, hang out with you forever.”

Trowa frowned slightly at the top of his head.

“Completely aside from that being my worst nightmare, being stuck with you forever,” he said, “don’t you think that’s just running away from your problems?”

“Seems to be workin’ for me so far,” Duo replied flippantly. “I may run and hide, but I never tell a lie.”

“I can’t believe you have a motto,” Trowa muttered, shaking his head. “That’s so lame.”

“Says Mr ‘Now that you’ve seen me, I can’t let you live’.”

“Says Mr ‘I will be the God of Death once again’.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck  _ you _ .”

“I thought you were saving yourself for Quatre.”

Deciding not to dignify that with a response, Trowa settled instead for kicking Duo in the thigh. Duo retaliated by thumping the pressure point under his knee, and the whole thing quickly devolved into shoving, slapping, and outright wrestling, sprawling on the floor and tangled up together. It eventually ended when Trowa upended the remains of his water over Duo’s head.

“Crossed a line!” Duo yelped, leaping to his feet and trying to shake the cold water off before it could get down his shirt.

“I don’t know what the line is,” Trowa said calmly. “I lost sight of it, after floating, forgotten, in empty space, left for dead… I think that’s crossing a line? The line between sanity and madness, life and death…”

“Okay firstly,” Duo said,  “fuck you, you can’t use that to win every argument. Secondly, I fuckin’  _ asked _ you to take me instead of Heero, but did you? No. That shit’s on you, poor team planning.  _ And _ you gutpunched me. Fuckin’ karma, I call it.”

Trowa managed to maintain his poker face admirably, although it was starting to crack a little at the corners.

“That shit  _ is _ on me,” he agreed, voice dramatically vague and airy. “Dark, dark shit, that haunts my nightmares and my innermost thoughts and…”

He couldn’t keep it up, at the unimpressed expression on Duo’s face, and he started laughing instead. The braided boy tried to keep his own disgusted look, but soon his was laughing too, and collapsed down on the floor next to him.

“Catherine doesn’t like it when I joke about that,” Trowa confessed, when they  had settled down. “She doesn’t get that if it’s not funny, then it’s just depressing.”

Bumping their shoulders together companionably Duo hummed his understanding, tilting his head back to stare at the brightly coloured tent above their heads.

“Must be nice, not to have to laugh at dark shit,” Duo mused. “To have the option of choosing to only think of good things.”

“We’ll get there,” Trowa promised, as much to himself as Duo, adjusting the gloves on his costume as he thought. “We’ve got the luxury now, I suppose, of building up on the good memories to outnumber the bad.”

“Well I’ve been workin’ on it already,” Duo said, waggling his eyebrows and leering. “But you haven’t even been tryin’.”

“Not all good memories have to revolve around inserting Tab A into Slot B.”

“I never said they did.” Duo held up his hands in mock-surrender. “Just, y’know, some of them do, and it gets better with practice. Aw man, I’m gonna get so laid doin’ this performance thing. Tumblers are always the sexiest act at the circus anyway-”

There was a whistle of air and a ‘thunk’, and Duo froze where he sat, before turning to look carefully at the knife that was embedded in the box a half inch from his head.

“Hey now, that’s not fair,” he said, as Catherine strolled haughtily past to reclaim it. “I asked you to let me join your act first, you said no!”

“You weren’t sexy enough,” she replied blithely, tugging the knife out of the wood in one smooth movement, disappearing to watch the performance in the ring, as Giselle’s pack came bounding gleefully out.

Trowa gave happy pets to Arturo and Chichi who came over to greet him, tails wagging and slobbering all over his face, before Giselle called them back and they obediently returned. Wiping dog drool off his chin, Trowa leaned his head back against the box and considered carefully how to phrase his next statement.

“I think,” he said, finally, “that you shouldn’t rush yourself.”

“Hm?”

He rolled the words around in his mind for a moment before he continued, watching Duo carefully out of the corner of his eye.

“You’ve got a life ahead of you, now. Years and years to build up good memories. You don’t have to do it all at once, to ‘bank’ them early.”

Duo didn’t answer for a long moment, turning his water bottle around in his hands. Eventually, he drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“How do you know?”

“How do I know what?”

“How do you know I’ve got years to build up good memories? That I’ve got a full life ahead?” Duo twisted where he sat, turning to face Trowa fully. “Literally nothing to date in my life has indicated that this is gonna last, that I’ve got the option to enjoy myself slowly. Goin’ by my luck, I’ll keel over in a month, or there’ll be another fuckin’ war.”

“Trends don’t continue forever?” Trowa offered, and he knew it was weak even as he said it. Duo snorted in response and he had to give him that. He was silent for a moment, before he tried again. “And, maybe, it’s a conscious thing as well – if you decide you want to make a change, it will happen. You’ve got a chance for something neither of us has ever had, don’t you think it’s worth giving it a shot?”

Evidently it was clear what was meant by ‘something neither of us has never had’ – Duo didn’t ask for clarification. A home. A solid, permanent base that would be his and his alone. A chance to grow roots, and stop living hand-to-mouth, or assessing what could be easily left behind if he needed to leave at a moment’s notice. The idea of not keeping his most precious possessions – the handful of them he’d been able to acquire – within arm’s reach at all times, that seemed like a bizarre and impossible luxury. The thought that, for the most part, he would be able to live without thinking that he’d possibly have to leave even his most valued items should something happen – his flute, his knives…

The instinct was perhaps to reject it, as Duo was doing. After fighting all your life, it was easy to be suspicious of anything 'easy’, or 'comfortable’. To wonder what strings were attached, what the conditions would be.

“Use the money to fix up the garage,” Trowa suggested, when Duo still didn't answer. “That's what Father Maxwell would have wanted you to use it for, that's why he set it up for the money to go to you.”

“It's way too much money for just me, though,” Duo argued. “It was meant to go between eight of us.”

“So, take your eighth. Give the rest to charity.”

Duo fell silent again, moodily knocking his empty water bottle against his leg and frowning at the ground. Trowa stood, brushing off his trousers.

“Just think about it,” he said. “Don't decide to run away because it seems easier. Really think.”

And he left Duo sitting there, to join Cathy for their act. As he moved towards the door, he could hear Duo half-singing to himself.

“L-I-F-E-G-O-E-S-O-N,” he spelled out, in a tuneful mutter. “You’ve got more than money and sense my friend, you’ve got  _ heart _ , and you’re goin’ your own way… yeah, right.”

  
  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I want to take this opportunity to emphasise that this is neither an accurate nor definitive representative of depression and recovery. Symptoms and treatment are different for different people, and honestly these are fictional characters so their recovery is very much built around the convenience of the plot.
> 
> If you think you may be depressed, or would like some help, there are resources available to you to find support - much healthier options than any of the ones these guys are taking!
> 
> More information on Depression:  
> http://www.nhs.uk/Conditions/Depression/Pages/Introduction.aspx
> 
> UK  
> https://www.time-to-change.org.uk/what-are-mental-health-problems/mental-health-help-you/other-useful-organisations
> 
> USA  
> https://adaa.org
> 
> EUROPE  
> http://www.mhe-sme.org
> 
> \- I have never used pot myself, but it is perfectly legal in the Netherlands. Researching this fic, I found some key advice for if you would like to try edible pot goodies:  
> * Edibles take longer to have an effect than smoked pot, so it can take up to an hour for anything to happen.  
> * Edibles are also usually more potent than smoked pot, so don't assume that it's not having an effect of you don't get high immediately, and then eat loads. Because it will all kick in later and the quote I saw on a forum was that was when "Satan came to pull your heart out through your kneecaps"  
> * People I have spoken to who have experienced edible pot have said it is much more intense than smoking, so make sure that you are somewhere safe with people you can trust.  
> * Ensure you stay hydrated! With water! I'm unsure if it makes a difference, but honestly that's just good advice for life.
> 
>  
> 
> \- the inferiority complex joke was shamelessly stolen from the show 'dinnerladies' which is perfect and you should all watch it.
> 
> \- the song Duo is singing at the end is L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N by Noah and the Whale, off the album which powered this fic. It's a great song, and feels very 'Duo' to me.


	6. Vienna, Budapest

It had been a while since Trowa had taken much time to play his flute, but on this heavy, lazy, hazy afternoon he had given into the impulse and the music curled sweetly through the sleepy circus. Perched on the roof of his trailer again, he let one leg dangle over the side and allowed himself to just feel the movements of his fingers and the breath through his lips. It was rather like mindfulness, in a way, a meditation of sorts.

“That was pretty,” Duo said. “What was it?”

The braided man was sprawled out beside him, stretched out in the sunshine and half-dozing.

“Blue Danube,” Trowa told him. He ran his fingers across the instrument in a quick scale without playing, testing his remembered dexterity. “Seemed fitting.”

There was a rumbled chuckle in response.

“Now do ‘Vienna’ by Ultravox.”

It was a joke, but after a moment Trowa recalled how the tune went and was able to pipe out the chorus, to Duo’s delighted laughter and dramatic vocal accompaniment.

“ _This means nothing to meeeee, ooooohhhh, Viennnnaaaaa_!”

Setting the instrument aside, Trowa leaned back on his hands and surveyed the day in the bright afternoon light. The colours of the circus seemed almost faded, washed out in the force of the sun. They probably should have moved inside, or at least to the shade, but in the last weeks the top of the trailer had become a favourite perch for them. They had transitioned almost entirely now from scrapping in out-of-sight scrublands, to retreating to the trailer roof to share a drink of whatever national liquor Duo had managed to acquire, since he had decided it was only fitting to drink the appropriate drink for each country.

Speaking of his companion in crime and dubious life choices, Duo raised himself up onto his elbows with a melodramatic grunt of effort, and pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead to squint at Trowa.

“I meant to ask,” he said, “d’you know where we’re goin’ after Budapest?”

“No, but if you hum it I can probably play it,” Trowa replied blithely, and then rocked out of the way of the kick Duo aimed at him in response. “I don’t know. Probably down through Italy or Greece, maybe, and then on south through Africa, or over to India. But that won’t be for a couple of months, so I doubt it’s finalised yet.”

“How come?”

“Budapest has a permanent Big Top. The Capital Circus of Budapest are based there, but they’re heading out on tour - we’ve got an agreement to use it while they’re away.” Closing his eyes, Trowa remembered the last time they had been there, and smiled. “It’s attached to the zoo, so it means we can give the animals a bit of a break from travelling too, and a bit more space. Usually they put us up in the old zookeeper apartments, and store the trailers round the back.”

“Huh.” Duo rolled onto his front, kicking his legs up behind him and propping his chin on one hand to study Trowa thoughtfully. “That sounds pretty neat. How come you guys don’t have a permanent base like that?”

A lazy, one-shouldered shrug was Trowa’s initial response. He had honestly never considered it before, although in light of his talk with Duo in Prague, about homes and lives, he had been pondering it a little more himself.

“Money, I suppose,” he said finally. “Or demand. We’d have to find somewhere that wanted a permanent circus, and then be able to pay to build one.”

“...Huh,” Duo said again, then shrugged himself and rolled onto his back to sunbathe some more. He tugged his phone out of his pocket, tapping in something quickly - probably a text to Heero - before stuffing it away and folding his arms beneath his head.

Trowa stayed as he was for a moment longer, rolling the situation over in his mind a few more times, before he straightened up and picked up his flute again.

“Anyway,” he said dryly, fighting the grin that was tugging his lips, “here’s _Wonderwall_.”

  


*

 

“Well,” Duo said, stood with his hands on his hips and surveying the view from the front of the circus, “as locations go, this is pretty sweet.”

To their right was the entrance to the zoo, which stretched behind them and around, encircling the Big Top. Continuing past that was Heroes’ Square - a grand gateway, two huge arcs of sculptures, curving around a towering pillar in the centre. Either side of the square stood two huge, beautiful art galleries, a mirror of stunning architecture and culture. Beyond that lay the Andrássy út - Budapest’s answer to the Champs-Élysées, long and grand with high end stores, restaurants, museums and the Budapest Opera House. It was bustling, funneling people towards Heroes’ Square, to them.

Directly across from them was a park, a huge area of green space, with a boating lake. And on the side of the park closest to them, literally across the road from where they were currently standing, were the Széchenyi Baths. A huge, yellow, Victorian palace of relaxation, there was a steady stream of people heading in and out.

“I’m gonna go there every day,” Duo declared.

“It’s boiling out,” Trowa said. “Why would you want to go and sit in hot water?”

“For _relaxation_ , obvs,” Duo said with a grin.

He shouldered his duffle bag and trailed behind Trowa, around the side of the circus towards the block of apartments that backed on to the zoo, their accommodation for the duration. The trailers had been safely stored at the rear of the zoo, the animals had been carefully transferred into empty enclosures, some still sedated, some sniffing curiously at their home. All that was left was to rehome the troupe.

Their shared apartment was fairly small, and fairly worn, but clean and neat. A room with twin beds sat off the living room, with a modest kitchenette, and the bathroom was next door to the bedroom. The living room looked out across the Australia section of the zoo, and as they dropped their bags, a few wallabies hopped past.

“Explore?” Duo asked, looking expectantly at Trowa. The taller man grinned, and nodded, more than happy to unleash the two of them on the unsuspecting city.

 

*

 

“Okay, so, since we’re gonna be here a while, I’ve looked up some stuff to do.”

Trowa paused in prodding at the remains of the goulash in his loaf of bread, wondering if he could possibly manage to eat any more, and glanced up at Duo who was perched across the table from him. It seemed that even Duo was struggling to get through the mound of goulash-and-bread they had each been presented with. He couldn’t work out if it was extreme value for money, or some kind of attempt to bully his digestive system into submission by sheer food volume.

They were sat on the top floor of the indoor market building, ornate black metal arching overhead to the roof. Large windows at each end and around the ceiling let in plenty of light, whilst the bare walls and stone floors kept the interior fairly cool compared to the outside. The walkway was filled with stalls and stands selling food and drinks, and they could look down and see the people bustling in the food and souvenir market below. Everything smelled faintly of meat and paprika, and the building was filled with jumbled, echoing conversation.

“Go on,” he prompted, when Duo seemed to be waiting for a response.

“I wanna go to the statue park,” Duo said, reading through the list he’d made on his phone. “It’s all these old pre-Colony statues from the Soviet Union? I think they’d be neat. An’ there’s a museum called the ‘House Of Terror’, which’ll probably be a bummer, ‘cause it’s about World War Two, but I dunno, we prob’ly should go. An’ I wanna head out to Lake Balaton - apparently that’s where you go if you want a beach day. _And_ if we head out that way, we could go to Heviz, which is this natural thermal lake, and that sounds super cool.”

Giving up and pushing his plate away, Trowa sat back and raised an eyebrow at Duo.

“I thought it’d be all bars and clubs.”

“I’ve got some of those down too, don’t worry.” Duo grinned at him. “Apparently there’s a big scene in garden bars, and bars in ruined buildings, which sounds just my thing. _And_ they do club nights in the baths. Spa-ties.”

“Of course they do.”

“You not gonna finish that?”

Trowa shook his head and Duo looked a little relieved, setting his fork down too. They stood, Duo kicking his stool back under the table without looking, as he tapped away at whatever he was doing on his phone.

“Let’s go to the baths tomorrow,” he said suddenly, decisively, once they had stepped onto the escalators to the ground floor. “It’ll be a good way to recover from our hangovers and loosen up before the show.”

“It’s nice that you’re planning our hangovers before you’ve planned the drinking,” Trowa observed dryly.

Duo grinned, and gestured to a stall just below them, with a selection of glass bottles.

“That’s been planned since we got here,” he said. “You, me, and a couple of bottles of pálinka!”

Trowa thought that was a rather optimistic estimation, given what he remembered of the drink, but followed behind obediently.

 

*

 

It had been a sluggish start to the morning. Fuzzy-headed and dried out from their pálinka party for two, the day had long started before Duo rolled out of bed with a grunt and shuffled out of the room as Neanderthal Man. The sound of the shower followed shortly afterwards, and when he reappeared, carrying a glass of water and some painkillers which he sat on Trowa’s bedside table, he appeared to have made it to Homo Erectus.

He tugged Trowa out of bed and towards the shower – which seemed redundant, since they were planning on going to the _baths_ , but when Trowa pointed that out Duo had just shoved him into the bathroom, telling him that he never knew who he would meet, and he wouldn’t want to meet them dirty, that was bad manners. By the time Trowa had washed, the smell of fresh brewed coffee was filling the main room, Duo seemed to be halfway through a cup and fast approaching Homo Sapiens.

Trowa felt that it was well past time for another Ice Age.

The shower had helped, though, grudging as he was to admit it. And the judicious application of coffee and sweet breakfast pastries meant that, when they finally headed out into the bright, clear day, he was feeling almost human again. Almost.

The entrance hall for the baths was dark wood panelled, every inch the nod to Victorian sensibilities,with decorative moulding on all the doorways. Duo insisted on getting a cubicle each, splitting them up in the rows and rows of wooden changing rooms. The corridor curved around the pools outside, visible through the wall of windows entirely filled one side.

Stepping out into the square to wait for the braided man, Trowa squinted as his eyes readjusted to the light. The faint smell of sulphur from the water permeated the air, and the bricks were warm beneath his feet from the sun. He was almost beginning to look forward to the idea of sinking into the water, recalling vaguely something about the medicinal properties the minerals in it provided. Duo had been right, this was going to be a good way to recover from the hangover…

“Trowa! Trowa, you made it!”

Never mind, he thought, turning rigidly and disbelievingly towards the voice he _couldn't_ have just heard. Anything he had ever thought was good about Duo was cancelled out, because there was no-one else who could be behind this.

He was going to skin the little bastard.

  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Budapest is amazing and I love it a lot. I've been three times now and spend a lot of time wanting to go back. There really is a permanent circus, and it really is attached to the zoo, and there really are flats which look over the Australian section, although I have taken a liberty of deciding they're zookeeper flats - they could just be super amazing residential flats. Wallabies outside your window would be p. Exciting.
> 
> And the loaves filled with goulash can really be bought in the market hall! It's an amazing building full of great smells, and I still think about the fact that I wasn't able to finish my goulash loaf when I last visited. It was so good. Leaving it was the hardest thing, let me tell you.


	7. Széchenyi

Trowa had not previously been aware of the hallucinogenic properties of  pálinka, but apparently the excessive consumption of large quantities of fermented fruit mash could perform wonders into tricking one’s senses. That was the only explanation for why, standing in the middle of Budapest in only his swimsuit, with a hangover skulking insistently around his skull, Trowa could see Quatre Raberba Winner coming towards him.

The blonde climbed up the shallow steps out of the pool like some kind of tourist-attraction water God, rising from the deep, that was how unlikely his appearance was, and how unprepared Trowa's brain was for it, resorting to trite romance novel narrative. His hair was wet and pushed back out of his face, drops of water running down his bare chest and shining in the bright sunlight, his own swimsuit damp and clinging.

Trowa had never had a waking dream before, he wasn't sure he liked it.

But no, Quatre was coming closer, a huge, delighted smile on his face. Over his shoulder, Trowa could see the familiar faces of Abdul and Auda. The two Maguanacs were chest-deep in the pool, playing a game of chess on one of the stone sets installed in the bath, a group of elderly Hungarian men crowded around them, frowning and offering suggestions.

Somehow it was that detail which convinced him this was real, because that detail was perhaps the most absurd thing about it all.

Quatre was in front of him now, and his proximity seemed to have increased the pressure in Trowa's skull. The blonde's smile was blinding, and he almost seemed a little breathless.

“I’m so glad you made it,” he said, tilting his head back slightly to dazzle Trowa even more. “Duo said he wasn't sure if you’d be called in to set up for today, but he did promise that one of you would be here for sure.”

“Did he?” Trowa asked, dazedly. He filed away the statement for later, making plans to throttle Duo with his own damn braid, whilst he tried to kick his brain into some kind of functionality.

The blonde seemed to have grown a little in the months since Christmas, and his body held the lanky promise of a few more inches to come in the future. Trowa couldn't help but notice - he tried not to, but the guy was right in front of him, half naked and wet - that he seemed to be filling out a little. Broadening slightly into his shoulders, and losing the softness he’d had in favour of muscle tone and definition. He looked amazing.

And Trowa had woken up an hour before with a hangover.

Duo was definitely going to get murdered. At length.

Quatre was peering over Trowa's shoulder towards the changing cubicles.

“I suppose Duo's going to be late?”

“Almost certainly.”  _ The late Duo Maxwell _ was certainly sounding appealing right now.

“Ah, I should let you get in, instead of keeping you trapped here!” Quatre laughed and began to lead the way back to the pool, taking Trowa's towel for him and tossing it aside on one of the nearby benches as they passed, alongside dozens of others. “I can't tell you how great it is to see you! I'm sorry I’ve been so awful at getting in touch! I should do better, but I always just have so much I want to say to you, and I never seem to have the time to sit down to write. You're looking really well, by the way.”

Trowa knew that Quatre was unfailingly polite, but this seemed to be pushing the bounds of things a little, and he snorted derisively as he followed the blonde down the steps. The water was gloriously warm, in a different way from the heat of the day, and seemed to seep through to his muscles as he stepped down until it was chest height. Quatre turned to grin at him.

“Well,” he amended, “you look a little tired, but I expect that from traveling with Duo. Otherwise, though.”

“We drank two bottles of pálinka last night,” Trowa told him, feeling the need to explain. Quatre laughed, and it was warm and delighted - everything Trowa remembered, and it curled through him like an ache.

Last time he had seen Quatre, he had been mostly numb, and he'd still been dazzled. Now, with the emotional awakening he’d been going through it was like his nerves had been stripped and everything hit that much harder, that much more intensely. Like an ice cube on a sensitive tooth. He wasn't prepared.

“What are you doing here?” he managed to ask, swirling his arms and letting the water flow around him. Quatre was bobbing down into the water, so his chin was touching there surface, and blinked up at him, eyes still as big, and blue, and deep as ever, earnest to the core.

“Well, since I wasn't able to meet you guys in Vienna, because I was swamped with meetings, I was hoping to catch you guys after. I have some 'holiday’ booked in -” he rolled his eyes, and looked at Trowa as if he'd understand - holiday wasn't really holiday for a Winner. “But then Duo let me know you guys would be here for a while, so I was able to relocate base to the hotel here.”

Oh. So  _ that _ was who Duo had been texting. Oh, he really was a dead man.

“I didn't know you were in Vienna,” he settled for, letting himself sit on the lowest step, the warm water blanketing and soothing him, seeping into his body and keeping him relaxed.

“Didn't Duo tell you? I thought he was passing on the messages - he kept sending me photos, so I thought the emails were from both of you.”

“No,” Trowa said. “He didn't say…” Photographs? Jesus fucking Christ, what had Duo been sending photographs of? His body was going to be unidentifiable by the time Trowa was through with him.

“Oh.” Quatre stood, and looked a little awkward, and slightly nervous. “Sorry, I didn't realise, or I would have copied you in…”

“It's fine!” Trowa said hastily, regretting everything he had said until that point, and wishing he hadn't opened his mouth. “It’s more than fine. It is really good to see you. I mean, it’s been a while.”

Under the water, he gestured for Quatre to sit beside him on the step, and, after a moment's hesitation, he did, with a small smile. He had to sit on the next step up to get the slightly shallower water, but Trowa leaned back on his elbows and smiled gently up at him, and the smile he got in return would last him for decades.

Duo never appeared. But Trowa lost track of how long he and Quatre spoke for. Easily a couple of hours, but it felt like no time at all. He had missed the cadence of the Arabian’s voice, the casual openness of his expressions. They didn't even move out of the outdoor pool to try the other baths indoors, instead drifting easily through the water, around the other tourists, alternatively talking about nothing in particular, and subjects of great import.

“The Board aren't happy to have me in charge,” Quatre said with a sigh, examining his wrinkly fingers. “So I'm on probation until I get my MBA. But because I don't have an undergraduate degree, no MBA course will accept me. I'm doing a diploma, and if I pass that then LSE will let me on their course.”

“You're doing that around running the company?” Trowa raised an eyebrow. “That's insane. Where do you find the time?”

“I don't.” Quatre shot him a rueful grin. “That's why I have to take 'holiday’ sessions, to catch up.”

“That's bullshit.”

“That's business.”

There wasn't much to say to that, and Trowa frowned down at the water stretching his legs out behind him as he held himself up on the steps. He had never envied Quatre's wealth, but he had also never really considered the freedom he had in comparison.

“But!” Quatre said, clapping his hands and trying to lighten the mood. “I'm here for a while, you're here for a while. We can make up for lost time. I can come and see all of your shows, and you can stop me sinking into study despair.”

“ _ All _ of the shows?” Trowa asked, with a small smirk and a raised eyebrow. The blonde grinned back at him.

“Alright, we’ll start with this evening, and see how impressed I am. We can go for dinner after – what a pain Duo’s not here!”

“Don’t worry,” Trowa said, and if there was a dark edge to his voice it might have gone unnoticed. “I’ll make sure he gets the message.”

 

*

 

It’s easy to hide from someone if you are not likely to be in the same place as them at any given time. However, if both of you are scheduled to perform in, say, a circus show, in the same big top, at the same time, secretion becomes somewhat more difficult.

Trowa took no little satisfaction in making this abundantly clear to Duo later that day, grabbing the braided boy as he passed the changing room, slamming him against the wall and pinning him there.

“You little shit,” he growled, leaning his face close to Duo’s. “What do you think you’re trying to pull?”

“I’m not  _ trying _ anything,” Duo scoffed, clearly unconcerned with his current position. “I think I’ve pulled it off pretty well, thanks.”

In response, Trowa adjusted his grip on Duo’s arm, twisting it and putting pressure on his joints. The response was a suppressed wince, and a chin stuck out mulishly.

“What were you emailing him? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What, and give you a chance to panic and do a runner? No chance!”

Trowa groaned in frustration and dropped his gaze, closing his eyes and counting to ten for patience. Then he counted to ten again, for good measure.

“Then why –  _ why _ – did you get me drunk last night?”

Duo laughed, and Trowa glowered at him, but didn’t stop him twisting out of his grip and brushing himself off. He made quite a performance of it, straightening his costume and finally patting his hair.

“You think I’d’ve got you there, at that time, without you spotting Q before he spotted you, if you’d been firing on all cylinders?” Duo snorted and folded his arms. “I threw myself on the grenade for you there, I’ve been sufferin’ too, an’ now I’m gonna get flung around by Sasha. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, just in case.”

“You’re not going to get sympathy,” Trowa snapped, “this is  _ your _ fault. Quatre said you sent pictures – what pictures?!”

Duo waved him off, starting to head backstage, Trowa falling into step beside him. The other performers were already starting to cluster, everyone attempting to find a free space to warm up and stretch off. Legs were braced against every available surface, and occasionally other people, the room a riot of colour, sequins and feathers, performers twisted into all sorts of mind-bending shapes, casually chatting and laughing. The pre-show adrenaline was building.

“Nothin’ exciting. Just, y’know, the ‘Trowa on Tour’ collection, to give him incentive to come see you,” Duo said with a grin. “Trowa gazing at the sunset – that’s your sensitive side, obvs. Trowa playin’ the flute, for the arty side. Trowa shirtless, variations one through twenty-seven-“

“ _ Twenty-seven _ ?”

“-to show off the full majesty of that beefcake you’ve been cookin’ for the last year. Like hot damn, son. If you got it, flaunt it. Et cetera, et cetera.”

The word ‘mortified’ was not nearly enough to cover how Trowa felt. He sank, slowly onto bench as Duo started limbering up, and hid his face in his hands. Some part of him was marvelling how quickly his life was able to go from ‘pretty okay with signs of improving’ to ‘absolute screaming nightmare’ in such a short space of time. The rest of it was busy trying to impress upon him the full ramifications of this new information.

“Duo,” he said in a strangled voice. “He thinks I knew about the emails. He’s going to think  _ I _ asked you to send a load of shirtless photos of me.”

“So?” Duo asked, and then blithely ignored the look Trowa shot him in response. “I’m more surprised he didn’t send back one in response. Little Q-ball’s been holdin’ out on us. He’s grown up a bit.”

“You stayed at the baths?” Trowa demanded. “Why did you leave me there on my own?”

“You weren’t on your own,” Duo pointed out. “You were with Quatre. And three’s a crowd, so I kept outta the way. If you’d looked like you were bombing I’d’ve rescued you, I’m a good wing man after all. But from where I was sittin’ you did just fine.”

“I hate you,” Trowa told him. “I’m going to smother you in your sleep. I’m going to throttle you with your own braid. I’m going to tie your intestines into a pretty bow.”

“So, that wasn’t Q sayin’ he wanted to see you every day, then?” Duo asked innocently, his face a picture of angelic curiosity. “Did I lip read that wrong? I’m a little out of practice.”

“I – “  Trowa paused, then deflated slightly as his irritation was sidetracked by another, more surprising thought. Quatre  _ had _ said that, hadn’t he? Trowa had diverted him, but that had been what he’d said, unprompted. “Huh.”

“You’re welcome,” Duo said, and he didn’t even pretend not to be smug.

 

*

 

“What’re you peering at?”

Coming out of the changing rooms, Trowa was finger-combing his hair back into place when he saw Duo pressed up against the door to the main foyer, peeking through the gap. He had a huge grin on his face.

“Your Prince Charming,” Duo answered cheerfully. He stepped aside and waved for Trowa to have a look. “I think he’s brought you flowers.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Trowa muttered, but he slid into place anyway and lined his eye up with the gap.

It didn’t take too long to spot Quatre. The building had emptied out quickly following the show, and only a few stragglers remained, clustered together in small groups and laughing. Quatre stood alone, a serene smile on his face, holding a bouquet of brightly coloured flowers. A short way away, trying to look inconspicuous despite their hulking frames, were a couple more Maguanacs – Fahid and Abdallah, if Trowa remembered correctly. It looked like they were under strict instructions not to interfere, and were huddled to the side, picking at the remains of a large bag of candyfloss.

During the show, Trowa had done his level best to pretend Quatre wasn’t there, despite the blonde getting ringside seats. He had tried not to think about how Quatre had never actually seen one of his performances before, how suddenly everything seemed to require that bit more concentration. It was thoroughly ridiculous, he told himself, as Catherine hurled another knife towards him. He had never had difficulty concentrating before due to Quatre’s presence – he’d fought a war alongside him and had been blessedly free from performance anxiety.

A voice in his head which sounded suspiciously like Duo reminded him that this wasn’t war, this was peace time. And that he was probably more emotionally healthy than he had been in a long time.

It didn’t help him feel better at all.

Even seeing him from this distance, Trowa felt like he’d managed to forget how good he looked, despite having seen him only a few hours earlier. Maybe it was because he had mostly recovered from his hangover. Maybe it was because he hadn’t just been totally blindsided by Quatre leaping at him out of nowhere. Maybe it was because he had never seen the blonde in jeans before, and they fitted him  _ really _ well and seemed to emphasise the few inches he had grown fairly significantly, making his legs seem much longer than Trowa remembered. His shirt was cut slim as well, showing off how lean he was now he was taller, and sitting perfectly across every muscle. He seemed utterly unbothered by the heat of the day, looking fresh, cool and collected.

Jesus fuck, Trowa was in trouble.

“Well, have fun being wined and dined,” Duo chirped, clearly enjoying his friend’s obvious alarm. “With Q-ball’s game, and your absolute  _ lack _ of game, I bet he’ll get you to go all the way on the first date, despite what your mama told you.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Trowa grabbed his arm before he could get too far away, dragging him back to the door. “He’s expecting both of us, you’re not leaving me alone again.”

“Aw he didn’t  _ mean _ to invite me,” Duo complained, trying to wriggle his arm free. “He was only doin’ it to be polite. What he really wants is for the two of you to make googly eyes at each other over goulash an’ dumplings, and I don’t wanna stand in the way of that.”

“Stop it,” the taller boy hissed. “It’s not funny, and the last thing I need is you making jokes like that in front of him.”

“Beg to differ,” Duo muttered, as he was dragged out into the foyer. “A - it’s hilarious; B - I think Q hearin’ these jokes’d do your sex life the world of fuckin’ good - ow!”

“Duo, Trowa!” Quatre smiled hugely at them as they approached. “That was amazing, you were both - Are you okay, Duo?”

“He hurt his wrist a little during the show,” Trowa said, treading on Duo’s foot to try and keep him quiet.

“No, I didn’t! He just gave me a Chinese burn,” Duo protested, holding his arm out of the taller boy’s way and glowering at him. “Who even does that? Are you nine?”

“Obviously I’m not, so obviously I didn’t.”

“You’re damaged, Cathy should send you back for a refund.”

“You didn’t need to bring flowers, you know,” Trowa told Quatre. “We let people come watch the show without bringing presents.”

“Are they for Trowa?” Duo asked, and got a dead arm from Trowa in response.

The blonde had been watching them bicker with an indulgent if slightly bemused smile, but he blinked back to life at the comment. He glanced down at the flowers, then laughed, a little embarrassed.

“They’re actually for Catherine,” he confessed, cheeks pinking a little and grinning self-consciously. “The last time we met, things did not… go well. And with everything that happened, I never got a chance to apologise properly. I wanted to get off on the right foot, this time.”

Trowa didn’t know what to say to that. He was bizarrely and absurdly touched by the gesture, which was both so unexpectedly and unnecessarily thoughtful, and yet so typically  _ Quatre _ , and his stomach did a strange flip-flop. Instead he just found himself staring at the blonde, and the flowers, unable to formulate anything more sensible than “oh” as a response.

Living up to his self-proclaimed title of ‘excellent wingman’, Duo saw he was clearly floundering and declared he would go and find the lady in question, since he was hungry and didn’t want to wait around for the other two to get their thumbs out of their asses to do it. He said that loudly, verbatim, garnering attention from the last few straggling audience members. Remaining where he was, Trowa tried to remember how to make eye contact with Quatre without doing something daft. Instead, they stood in semi-awkward silence until Duo returned, chivvying Catherine along with him.

She looked suitably suspicious, having more than a passing acquaintance with Duo's sense of humour. Her suspicion seemed to sharpen when she clocked Quatre, and she shot a questioning look at her brother. He gave her a small, slightly apologetic smile, but offered no more explanation.

“Duo said you wanted me?” she asked, drawing closer and fixing Trowa with a glare. He shrugged and glanced at the blonde next to him, who stepped forward and held out the flowers with a gentle smile.

“I didn't get a chance to see the show last time we met,” Quatre said, “it was so great to see you in action. I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused back then, I hope that these can go some way to making up for it?”

Catherine took the bouquet and blinked down at it.

“Gerberas and sunflowers,” she said, clearly taken aback. “They're my favourites. How did you - ?”

“Trowa sent me some photos from the tour,” Quatre explained. “I saw some pictures of them in your trailer. I hope it's not too forward -”

“What did you say your name was, again?” Catherine narrowed her eyes, suddenly studying the boy in front of her. Her eyes narrowed consideringly as she sized him up.

“Oh! Yes, I’m sorry, I never actually got around to introducing myself last time either!” He stuck his hand out and shook hers firmly. “I’m Quatre. Quatre Raberba Winner.”

“D’you think he adds the ‘Raberba’ so he doesn’t get confused with some  _ other _ Quatre Winner?” Duo muttered to Trowa, and got an elbow in his ribs for his troubles. For his part, Trowa was watching as Catherine shook his hand, and noted the flicker of her eyebrows as she processed his name, the twitch of her lips. He had a sneaking suspicion she was going to have an awful lot of questions for him later.

“It’s nice to meet you properly,” she said instead, and graced Quatre with a pleasant smile. “And thank you for the flowers. I’ll go put them in water, and let you guys get on with your evening.”

Nodding at the blonde, she turned, and the look she shot Trowa as she did so was as razor sharp as any of her knives, before she disappeared out of the foyer and back to the changing rooms.

“Did that go well?” Duo asked, finally. “I can’t tell.”

“We don’t have any additional holes in us,” Trowa said. “I think we’re okay.”

 

*

 

After convincing Quatre’s Maguanac escort to go home, with the insistence that the three of them were perfectly capable of looking after themselves, and faithful promises that Duo and Trowa would walk Master Quatre all the way back to the hotel, they were able to head off for a fairly peaceful meal without any extraneous accompaniments.

“I can’t believe they’re still so protective of you,” Duo said with a grin, sliding into the seat across the table from blonde, as Trowa took the chair beside him.

“I was enough of a kidnap risk when I was only the heir to the company,” Quatre told him with a wry grin, glancing sideways at Trowa. “As they well know. Imagine how much more I’m worth now. If you wanted to kidnap me, you could make a decent return.”

“I think the risks massively outweigh the potential benefits on that one,” Trowa muttered. “We’ve both met Rashid.”

“You mean you  _ don’t  _ wanna spirit Q away in the dark?” Duo gasped, melodramatically, moving his feet out of the way as Trowa tried to kick him under the table. “Creep into his bedroom at midnight and…”

“It’s sweet that you think I’m in bed at midnight,” Quatre said, leaning back to avoid the jostling of the table, and calmly waving at a waiter. “It’s good I got used to no sleep during the war.”

As he talked quietly with the waiter in Hungarian, Trowa managed to land a solid kick on Duo’s shin, followed by a solid glare. The braided boy glowered right back and leaned down to rub at the spot, but tilted his head slightly to acknowledge a temporary cessation of hostilities. Turning back to the pair of them, Quatre raised an eyebrow and grinned.

“I guess you two have been bonding during the last few months?”

“That’s a word for it,” Duo allowed.

“I tried to send him back to Heero but it didn’t work,” Trowa sniffed.

The waiter returned with a bottle of wine and three glasses, setting them in front of each of them and filling them up. Duo wrinkled his nose at it as the orders were taken.The rest of the trip he had drunk spirits and beers, Trowa realised. He’d never seen him drinking wine.

Quatre noticed too.

“This is a good one,” he assured his friends. “I first tried it when I came here with my father, and was surprised by how smooth it was.  _ Egri Bikavér _ \- Bull’s Blood! Even Wufei really likes it.”

Duo froze from where he was swirling the liquid in the glass and peering it at. There was a long silence, before Trowa cleared his throat slightly and picked up his own wine.

“You’ve seen Wufei?”

“A handful of times,” Quatre said slowly, glancing at Duo, before turning to Trowa more fully and smiling brightly at him. “I’ve been working with Lady Une and Relena on the Preventers funding proposals and development plans, so I see him around the HQ in Brussels. He’s still not very sociable though,” he added with a shrug. “I’ve had to start asking him to dinner with Une around so he can’t pretend he’s got too much work to come. But I served this to him, and he said it was ‘very nice’ without me even asking what he thought,  _ and _ he had a second glass! Well, you know what he’s like, that’s practically effusive. So I immediately went and bought shares in the vineyard.”

There was a choking noise as Duo, who had been tentatively trying his drink in light of this information, suppressed a laugh and inhaled a mouthful of the wine in the process. He coughed into his napkin whilst Trowa tried to hide his own grin.

“That’s a little… extreme?” he offered.

“I don’t think so,” Quatre sniffed, playfully haughty. “It’s a solid business anyway, and frankly the amount of work I usually have to put in to get Wufei to come see me, the price of this incentive will save me a lot of effort in the long run. I told them if they ever want to retire to come see me and I’ll give them a generous pension for the controlling stake.”

Under control now, if a little red-faced, Duo finally piped up.

“Don’t you think he’ll just go buy it himself?”

“No.” Quatre had a wicked twinkle in his eye. “He doesn’t know what it is - I always serve it from a decanter, so he’s never seen the bottle. And I’m not going to tell him! He needs to get out more!”

“Out more to see you?”

“Not  _ just _ me… but I won’t discourage him.” The smirk was not quite hidden behind Quatre’s glass.

This was.... this was good, Trowa reflected, grinning back. This was okay. He wasn’t making a fool of himself, and if Duo could stay well-behaved for the rest of the meal, this would be fine. That wicked expression Quatre had flashed him would probably come to visit him in his dreams at some point, but for now he was handling it.

Although, as he thought that, Quatre caught his eye and tilted his head to the side, thoughtful, before his whole face softened and he gave Trowa the warmest, most tender smile. Trowa’s brain short-circuited and he panicked, gaze flashing to where Duo was flicking through the menu, idly sipping at his drink.

“Ah… while you’re here, maybe you can help Duo,” he blurted. Quatre looked a little surprised, but composed himself quickly, whilst the other boy across the table jerked his head up and stared wildly at Trowa. “He’s recently come into some money,” Trowa added, “and was thinking of starting a charity.”

“That’s wonderful!” Quatre said, turning to face his friend fully, whilst Duo was still looking at Trowa, his mouth working but no sound coming out. “I’d be happy to help! Do you have any idea what area you’d like to look at?”

Mouthing ‘sorry’ and looking apologetic over the table, Trowa watched as Duo narrowed his eyes at him - a promise of retribution later - before meeting Quatre’s gaze squarely.

“Uh… children’s homes, I guess?” This was clearly the first idea that had come to mind, and he looked a little surprised at the words, then thoughtful. “Yeah,” he repeated, more firmly. “Children’s homes.”

Delighted, Quatre warmed to the topic immediately, discussing the ventures WEI had in place in that field, and promising to send Duo information on the different funding bodies available who would assist children's charities. Trowa took a long mouthful of wine and tried to calm his jangling nerves. A lesson there, he thought, not to get too complacent. He’d buy Duo a drink later to apologise, and keep better control of himself in future.

  
  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the Széchenyi baths are utterly glorious. A bright yellow, Victorian building smack in the middle of a park in Budapest, there are outdoor pools, naturally warm from one of the many hot springs the city is built on. Inside the buildings there are other pools and saunas of varying temperatures - from very hot to very cold - for all sorts of relaxation and medicinal requirements. The outside pool is my favourite though, with a fountain and the sky above you. There are a couple of chess boards installed, and there are clearly local men who come regularly to sit in the baths and play chess with their friends. You can see pictures on its website: http://www.szechenyibath.hu 
> 
> \- Pálinka is a traditional fruit brandy, distilled from fruits, and coming in all sorts of wonderful fruit flavours. It is also strong, so even with their increased resistance to drugs, two bottles between the two of them would leave Duo and Trowa feeling a bit poorly. http://uk.gotohungary.com/palinka
> 
> \- I have taken the entry requirements for LSE's MBA from the MBA at the University I work at. LSE doesn't actually have an MBA, it has a Masters in Global Business, which is code for "we're smarter than Harvard Business School". It does offer MBA modules in conjunction with a number of other Universities though, so we will assume by the AC era it has finally cracked and is offering the MBA - Masters in Business Administration.
> 
> \- LSE, or London School of Economics and Political Science, is one of the Colleges which makes up the University of London, and is hugely prestigious in terms of its standing as a business and political science institution. Its alumni include prime ministers, presidents and royalty, as well as numerous successful business owners. It is particularly known for its international contingent, and is well respected in the Middle East, which is why I thought it appropriate for Quatre to go there. You can see a list of the Alumni here: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_people_associated_with_the_London_School_of_Economics
> 
> \- Egri Bikavér is one of the traditional wines of Hungary and it is delicious. A red wine, the name comes from a story during a siege in the 1500s, where it was rumoured Bull's Blood was mixed with the wine to give the soldiers strength and fortitude. There must have been something in it - the town did not fall and eventually the force besieging them gave up and went home!
> 
> Continued thanks to kangofu-cb for her amazing beta skills, and to everyone who has read, and particularly those who have left kudos and comments. I really appreciate every bit of feedback I get, and it makes me so happy to get them. <3


	8. Andrássy út

“So,” Catherine said casually -  _ too _ casually, considering she was lounging on the sofa in their tiny apartment and sharpening her knives, “when were you planning on telling me that you were friends with basically the richest guy in existence?”

Trowa tried his best to remain equally casual, eyes never leaving the cafetiere, attempting to get the coffee to brew more quickly with just the power of his will. Despite this, he felt the tell-tale prickling on the back of his neck, which he knew came from Catherine sizing him up and calculating how best to get a knife between the vertebrae there.

“It didn't seem relevant?” he tried.

“Oh, didn't it?” She sounded surprised and intrigued.

“Be fair,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Last time you met him,  _ I _ didn't know who he was. By the time I remembered, there were more pressing issues than dropping you a line to fill you in on the gossip.”

She snorted derisively and set aside one knife, picking up the next to begin the cycle again. Perhaps Trowa should have been more concerned that she generally sharpened her knives when she was interrogating him - he wasn't sure whether it was a conscious intimidation tactic or whether she just needed something to do to stop her throttling him. Deeming the coffee ready, he began to slowly press the plunger down, enjoying the smell that was released.

“But you saw him at Christmas, right?” Catherine continued. “You didn't think after that it might have been good to fill me in?”

“Why do you even care?” Trowa carefully filled his mug, and curled his fingers around it reverently, turning to face his self-declared sibling and leaning against the counter. Somewhere behind him the shower shut off, meaning Duo would shortly be there to pounce on the remains in the pot. “You didn't exactly seem to like him last time, so why would I have brought him up?”

“Uh, he’s a  _ useful connection, _ ” she said, staring at him as though he were very dim. “He could be a big help.”

“Help with what?” His eyes narrowed as he regarded her. “I'm not going to use him - he gets enough of that with the rest of his life.”

Catherine stared at him some more, before some sort of realisation spread across her face and she burst out laughing.

“Oh! Oh my god, well, that explains  _ everything _ .”

“What?”

“She's just worked out your secret crush,” Duo said cheerfully, winking at Cathy and nudging Trowa out of the way to get his own coffee. His braid was still piled on top of his head, his shorts half-done up and his shirt draped over his shoulder, having not quite yet made it onto his body.

“I don't have a secret crush,” Trowa muttered, although it was half-hearted. “And get dressed before you wink at my sister.”

“Well, it’s definitely not a secret, you’re right there,” Duo told him, before he stuffed a bagel into his mouth and finished fastening his shorts, tugging his shirt on. He unclipped his braid, scooped up his coffee and headed over to sit beside their visitor, who was also grinning wickedly. Trowa surveyed the pair of them and realised, with a sinking feeling, that at some point without him noticing they had worked out that they could double-team him. Individually they were bad enough, but combined he was definitely in trouble.

“There’s nothing happening, and nothing’s going to happen, so leave it alone, alright?” Best to make the lines clear now, before he had to try and control the two of them later.

The two figures sprawled on the sofa shared a knowing look, then started snickering.

“What?”

“He bought Cathy  _ flowers _ ,” Duo sniggered into his coffee mug. “Next date he’ll be askin’ her permission to marry you.”

Cathy let out a shout of delighted laughter, and thumped the American’s shoulder happily, swinging her feet off the sofa to make room for Trowa. He declined the offer, instead sitting in the armchair and glowering at them.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped.

“No, of course, you’re right,” Catherine gasped catching her breath. “He’s gotta  _ court _ you first! He’s gotta treat you like a real gentleman!”

“I hate you both,” he told them loudly, as they both started cackling, then raucously singing a song from an ancient musical about “ _ goin’ courtin’ _ ”.

It was going to be a long stay in Budapest.

 

*

 

In a bid to avoid further abuse from the tag team who had taken up residence in his apartment, Trowa declared his intention to go on a walk, alone, to get some fresh air before the show. Leaving the two of them cackling loudly together, he headed out of the door and, after a moment’s consideration, turned his steps towards the city.

Heroes Square was bright in the sunlight, the white paving seeming to radiate the sun’s heat upwards, giving the area a hazy appearance. Tourists clustered around, peering up at the states in the two large ‘gates’, trying to take photographs, or just passing between the two museums which flanked the square, their dark stone, colonnaded fronts looking fairly cool in the shade they provided. One even had a café set up by the entrance on the top of the steps, and people surveyed the views with ice creams and cool drinks. Ice cream and a cool drink sounded like a good idea, Trowa reflected, but this was a little close to the circus for comfort – Heroes Square was visible from the big top entrance, and if he wanted space and a bit of peace and quiet, he’d probably be best heading further into the city and disappearing a little.

He sauntered across the square and over the road, onto Andrassy Ut proper. At this end, the road was still wide enough that plenty of sunlight reached down it, the huge houses on either side spaced far apart enough that their impressive bulks did not cast enough shadow. He studied the architecture – each house different from the last, and full of character, expressions of personality springing forth in their designs – and tried not to let his thoughts circle around what Duo and Cathy had said. Tried not to let himself get wound up by stewing on things.

Tried, but failed.

It had been bad enough having Duo tease him on the trip thus far, having Catherine involved too meant that neither of them would relent. And he had a sneaking suspicion they would both try to interfere where they weren’t wanted, and make things awkward for everyone.

He wouldn’t have been so bothered, if he could trust them not to do or say anything in front of Quatre. They might happily read more into the blonde’s actions, but Trowa was comfortably certain it was just the usual consideration he would have shown anyone. He was also certain that if Quatre found out about Trowa’s feelings then he’d try to shoulder the responsibility, or the guilt, for being unable to return them. He was too gentle and considerate for that, and he didn’t deserve it at all.

It was as he was moping on these thoughts, slouching his way down past the high rise luxury apartment buildings and the Opera house, that he heard his name being called. It took him a moment to register, and a split-second longer to register the distinctive bass voice, before he turned and saw the huge, hulking figure of Rashid waving at him as he trotted after him. Seeing someone as gigantic as Rashid trot was bizarre, and Trowa suppressed a smirk as he took pity on him and walked back to meet him.

“I thought it was you,” Rashid boomed with a grin as he drew nearer. “Master Quatre said you were in town. I see you’ve grown! Soon you might be as tall as me!”

Trowa quirked an eyebrow as Rashid chuckled to himself, all approximately seven feet of him, Trowa was certain. He had gained a few inches, would likely gain a few more, but he doubted he’d ever reach such a lofty goal.

“Were you coming to see him?” Rashid continued. “It is hard to find the entrance, they refuse to put a sign on, saying it looks less exclusive that way, but honestly how they expect anyone to find it –“

“I, uh, wasn’t actually,” Trowa admitted, awkwardly, trying to stop what was clearly a topic Rashid felt strongly about. He hadn’t even realised he was walking past the hotel, even though he’d dropped Quatre off only the night before. It had looked different in the dark, and he had to confess to not having paid the most attention to his surroundings at the time… “I’m sure he’s busy, he’s got a lot going on.”

“Too much!” Rashid agreed, but to Trowa’s surprise he looped his arm around his shoulders and started to steer him back towards the hotel. “He is always taking on too much, and doesn’t know when to stop. Seeing you yesterday was the first break he has had in weeks, and even then he came home and did more work.”

“Then I probably shouldn’t interrupt him…” Trowa protested weakly, trying to wriggle out of the Maguanac leader’s grip and finding it holding fast as he was marched through the tinted glass doors and into the hotel foyer.

“That is why you absolutely  _ must _ interrupt him,” the giant of a man said firmly. “He will be delighted to see you, and he will not stop work for anything less.”

“I’m sure that’s not true-“

“I know that boy too well. It is absolutely true.”

Rashid’s tone brooked no argument, and Trowa found himself being directed across the vast marble floor in the sleek, lush foyer. Everything was tastefully understated in the way that spoke of unfathomable amounts of money. To one side the floor segued into polished wood, and warm lighting of a fancy bar, with a grand piano just inside to provide music to bar and foyer alike, although it was currently unused.

There were very few people around, although a few lunch meetings appeared to be taking place in the bar. Those around who were unoccupied were clad in logo-less clothes that cost more than Trowa’s entire savings, and were clearly quite curious as to why a teenager in khaki shorts, sneakers and a wrinkled tee shirt was being escorted smartly towards the elevators by someone who made most security guards look like children.

By the time the elevator doors pinged open again, Trowa had tried every excuse he could think of not to disturb Quatre, and Rashid had blithely ignored every one of them. He was dragged down the corridor, and dumped in a small reception area, where a startled young woman was informed in no uncertain that he was here for Master Quatre when his meeting had finished, and then Rashid disappeared. Trowa was left, standing awkwardly in front of the woman, who was frantically flicking through the calendar on her data pad.

“I’m so sorry, sir, but I don’t seem to have any record of this meeting…?”

“There isn’t one,” Trowa reassured her hastily. “I… know Quatre from a way back, and Rashid has decided that I need to… stop him working? I don’t know, he wasn’t very clear on the plan aside from getting me here.”

“Oh!” She looked relieved and put the tablet down. “Well, he’s in a meeting at the moment, but he’ll be done shortly if you’d like to wait…?”

She gestured towards a sofa just across from her, and as he followed the gesture, he realised that he could see Quatre’s meeting through the glass walls of the office. He was sat, smiling warmly, talking with another man who appeared to be in his early forties.

“Isn’t that… awkward?” he asked, gesturing at the wall.

“I’m used to it,” the secretary admitted. “But Mr. Winner isn’t a fan. He has solid walls on his meeting rooms for his other offices, but this office is usually used by the local manager, and he prefers the light so…”

Trowa studied her carefully. She was maybe in her late twenties, her dark hair pulled back into a french braid, and her dark eyes were sharp and lively.

“I’m Trowa,” he said, holding out his hand to shake. “Are you Quatre’s permanent secretary then?”

“I’m Maryam,” she told him pleasantly, her grip warm, firm, and businesslike. “I’m his planet-side secretary, when he’s down here. When he’s in the colonies he has Naiya and Seth to keep him company. How do you know him?”

“Uh…” Trowa thought quickly, not sure how much the company were aware of Quatre’s extra curricular activities. “We travelled together a few times.”

“Oh, that must have been great! I know he did a lot of travelling before his father died, but he doesn’t talk much about it.”

“It’s probably quite hard to look back on,” he offered. “All things considered.”

You could brush off almost anything by adding ‘all things considered’ to the end of it, Trowa had found. This time was no different, and Maryam nodded thoughtfully.

“He’s due out in about twenty minutes,” she told him. “Do you want some coffee while you wait, or…?”

He declined politely and settled on the sofa, trying to pretend he was looking at anything but Quatre through the large window to his left. He had never seen Quatre at work before, had never considered that he ever would. It was fascinating, and strange.

The blonde looked comfortable, relaxed, even in his impeccably tailored suit and tie - the air conditioning in this building was certainly earning its place. He was smiling as he ever smiled, ostensibly, but there was something different there, something slightly off. As Trowa studied him whilst trying to look like he wasn’t staring directly at him, he realised there was a set to his shoulders that was different - firmer, more solid. He was sat upright, turned slightly in his seat towards his guest, but the space was his. The way he rested his arm on the table, the angle of his chin. Dominance was clear, even as his face was opening, welcome, guileless.

Trowa wondered if the other man in the meeting realised how casually Quatre was owning the room. He couldn’t hear their words, and whilst he could lip read he realised it would be better not to bother, than risk getting Quatre into trouble with confidential information. So when the other man suddenly tensed, his shoulders and neck muscles tightening, Trowa was a little startled.

Then he looked at Quatre again.

The blonde’s expression hadn’t changed, not  _ really _ . He had raised his eyebrows a little, and tilted his head a little, that was it. But it was like the light on his face had shifted totally, changing the feeling from warm and open, to cold, hard, and intimidating. Trowa’s thoughts immediately jumped to Quatre’s first run with the Zero system, almost felt the ice of space clutching at his bones. Except - this had none of the mania of Zero. This was controlled, calculated. And apparently was serving to utterly eviscerate the man in the room with him.

And then as suddenly as it had appeared, it had vanished, and Quatre was standing. All poise and manners, he shook hands with his colleague - who seemed to have almost shrunk - and guided him towards the door with all the confidence of a man thirty years older.

“...And I look forward to working with you in the future,” Quatre was saying happily, as the door opened and they stepped into the foyer.

“Yes, absolutely.” The other man was clearly looking forward to no such thing.

“And before you leave Budapest, you absolutely  _ must _ visit the baths. You’ll feel like a new man afterwards.”

“I will if I have time. Thank you again.” Nodding hastily at Maryam and Trowa, the guest scurried out like his shoes were on fire, clearly glad to be free.

Quatre turned to Trowa and all strange iron and dominance in his demeanour melted away, as he fixed the taller boy with a smile like sunshine.

“This is a wonderful surprise!” he said.

“Rashid kidnapped me,” Trowa said, dumbly.

Laughing, the blonde turned to Maryam, to see if he had any more meetings scheduled for today. Finding he had none, he gestured for Trowa to follow him and he wound his way back towards the lift. This gave Trowa the time to fully appreciate the quality of Quatre’s tailor, and when he started tugging his tie off Trowa had to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat.

“I’m glad that’s over with,” Quatre confided as the lift closed behind them and whizzed them up to the top floor.

“It looked pretty serious.”

“It was.”

Nothing more was said until they reached their floor and Quatre led him along the corridor and swiped his key card to unlock the room. The sheer amount of light compared to the dim corridor meant that Trowa was briefly blinded as he stepped into the suite, and by the time his eyes had adjusted he saw that Quatre had draped his jacket and tie neatly over the back of a chair, and to Trowa’s alarm was starting to unbutton his shirt.

“Well, you certainly put the fear of you in him,” he said, trying not to stare as the shirt slipped off Quatre’s shoulders, trying not to watch the interplay of muscles under pale skin, or look too hard at the neat scar to one side of his back, round and puckered from a pinpoint blade. Trowa knew there was a matching one on his stomach.

To his horror though, Quatre paused, and turned to face him as he finished pulling the shirt from his arms. He studied his face with a shrewd expression, and a slow, thoughtful smile. Trowa desperately tried to think of anything other than the view in front of him, and keep his face as impassive as possible.

“Yes, you would have noticed that, wouldn’t you?” Quatre mused, looking pleased, perhaps, as he lay the shirt over his jacket on the chair. “Not everyone does.”

“What?”

“That man was Charles Hyde,” Quatre said, seemingly changing the subject abruptly, and heading towards another doorway. “You don’t mind if I change do you? I won’t take a second.”

“No, it’s fine.” Trowa watched him disappear through the door, but leave it open so they could speak through it. Seeing that he could catch glimpses of the blonde through the gap, Trowa turned to admire the view through the huge windows, to get his head back together. “Who’s Charles Hyde?”

“He managed to outbid me for a regeneration project on one of the L5 colonies earlier this year,” Quatre called back. “Undercut my lowest bid quite considerably.”

Trowa frowned.

“So, why…?”

“I don’t have a problem with losing the contract, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Quatre answered the question that Trowa hadn’t been able to phrase. “But I visited his site last month. They showed me around.”

That didn’t seem like the world of business Trowa had imagined. He had heard stories of corporate espionage and closely guarded secrets. Why would they just show a competitor around one of their projects?

“People underestimate me,” came the explanation. “I don’t look like I run a huge company, and even when they hear my name they assume I’m a figurehead and other people are doing the dirty work. I mean, look at me!”

Trowa turned and did as he was told, as Quatre came back into the room. He was in his own pair of shorts, an unbranded but clearly expensive t-shirt, and a pair of deck shoes that probably cost more than Trowa’s motorbike. But despite that, he looked younger than he had in the suit. Fresh faced, innocent, and utterly guileless.

“They probably thought they’d learn more from me about WEI than I’d get from them.” He snorted derisively and came to join Trowa by the window, peering down at the street below with his hands in his pockets. “It turned out that they’d undercut me by making serious concessions on safety and pay for staff, setting shifts too long, undermanning sites, and not having enough safety equipment to adequately cover the project - they just circled it round when they were inspected, to make it look like they had more.”

That seemed like the sort of thing that would annoy Quatre, Trowa thought, but it was the only thing that was making sense so far in the story. It still didn’t explain why Quatre had met the man instead of just reporting him.

“You threatened him?”

“Sort of.” Quatre’s grin was that of someone who had been caught, but was unrepentant. “I told him I’d supply the funds to cover the costs of ensuring the standards were raised, and I wouldn’t tell the authorities this time.”

“But next time…?”

“Oh if he does it again, I’ll ruin him,” Quatre said brightly, turning to face his friend fully and smiling. “I don’t want to do that, but I will if I have to. I could easily buy out his company several times over. His staff would be safe, but he’d have nothing.”

Holy shit, Trowa thought, staring down at the figure beside him. He’d known Quatre was an excellent strategist, but perhaps he hadn’t fully understood how ruthless he could be.

“Why didn’t you just do that now?”

“A number of reasons. First, he owes me a favour now. Favours are always good to have - I have plenty of businesses, I need friends in high places, and he has a fair amount of influence.” Quatre ticked the items off on his fingers. “Secondly, competition in the market keeps things fresh. It means WEI keeps working at its best to stay at the top. Without that, people get complacent and standards drop. Competition drives innovation. Thirdly? Leaving him in the market to work to better standards will encourage better standards all around. It’s no good just me making the change, the whole  _ culture _ needs to change, and that can only happen if other companies buy into this. Fourthly…”

He trailed off, and grinned slightly. It was a little wicked, assessing as he studied Trowa, and Trowa felt weighed, measured, and a little intimidated. It was an unusual feeling.

“Fourthly?” he prompted, and Quatre’s grin widened.

“People underestimate me,” Quatre repeated. “Everyone does it. You’ve done it too, don’t deny it,” he added, as Trowa opened his mouth to argue. “I know how I look. And I know the way I act makes me appear naive. But I can use that to my advantage - no-one will believe Charles that our conversation happened. He won’t even really be able to explain why I made him feel that way. Eventually he’ll mostly write it off, but by that point, hopefully, the lesson will have stuck and I won’t need to meet him again. And by being underestimated, I retain an advantage.”

“So… is it all an act, then?”

The question slipped out before Trowa could stop it, wondering which Quatre was the real Quatre. Thinking back to the day they had met, the day he had surrendered, had that all been calculated? The shorter boy tilted his head up at him consideringly, and then his smile softened.

“No,” he said finally, turning back to look out the window. “You guys have always got the real me. But if I can use the way other people think and feel to get them to do what’s necessary, use their own prejudices to get them to do what’s  _ right _ , then I will. And gladly.”

“And who decides what’s right?”

There was a pause, and then Quatre let out a delighted little chuckle, casting a sideways glance at Trowa that was all sunshine.

“The people around me, like you, who make sure I keep asking that question,” he said. “You help me maintain a moral compass, and make sure I don’t get caught up in my own ideas and ways. You make sure that I am working for something for everyone, not just to further my own ends. That’s why I need you.”

Trowa’s poker face was pretty well practiced at this stage in his life, so he managed to keep his reaction to himself at the statement. Quatre didn’t mean just him, he meant a general ‘you’.

“My father was a good man, of good principles, who only focussed on doing good through his own work,” Quatre mused. “But because he only focussed on himself, WEI became an island surrounded by hostile territories. He was a large man, in many ways, so he withstood for a long time, but in the end that wasn’t enough. I don’t have his stature - physically, or in my reputation yet - so I have to work differently. And that means using the advantages I do have to instigate change, and make this world a less hostile place.”

He shrugged broadly, and then moved over to the desk on the far side of the room, packing books and paper from there into the satchel he picked up from the floor beside it.

“What d’you want for lunch? Let’s stick nearby, since you’ve got a show soon. I can get some studying done in the sunshine and get out of this dratted hotel for a few hours.”

And just like that, the conversation had rebalanced itself. Trowa noted this, filed it away for consideration later, took Quatre’s lead and fell into step beside him.

“I’m surprised you’re comfortable with the huge windows,” he commented, as they moved towards the door. “Plenty of lines of sight.”

“They’re coated, and reinforced, so I’m pretty safe on that score,” Quatre told him cheerfully. “But I’m more valuable alive than dead for now.”

“For now?”

“Oh yes,” Quatre said, holding the door open for him. His grin was confiding, wicked and excited all at once, and it sent a delicious and unexpected thrill down Trowa’s spine. “I’ve got big plans.”

  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "Goin' Courtin'" is from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and the idea of Cathy and Duo bawling it at Trowa appealed to me intensely.
> 
> \- Andrássy út is known as the Champs-elysees of Budapest. It was built in the late 1800s for the millennium celebrations of the city in 1896. It's huge and broad and long, and has a mixture of museums, theatres - including the opera house - and shops and restaurants on it, as well as some giant houses and fancy hotels. So that's where Quatre's hotel is.


	9. Memento Park

After the show, Duo and Trowa had strolled out onto the park to find Quatre basking in the late evening sunshine, rucksack tucked under his head like a pillow and book on his stomach, looking for all the world like he was napping. The low sun was casting his hair in gold, and his face was relaxed and peaceful. It was idyllic, and oddly bucolic for the centre of a city.

“Isn’t he cute?” Duo stage-murmured to his friend, as the pair of them stood over the blonde. “Like a kitten.”

“The ways I know how to kill you number in the thousands,” Quatre replied, without opening his eyes, or changing his expression.

“You don’t get points for creativity,” Duo told him, flopping down to sprawl on the grass beside him. He plucked a daisy from nearby and leaned over to tickle Quatre’s nose with it, although it garnered no reaction. “You should, but you don’t.”

“Is it safe for you to be napping out here like this?”

In lieu of an answer, Quatre lifted his arm and jerked his thumb over Duo's shoulder. Trowa and the braided man followed the gesture – Trowa lifting his gaze, Duo twisting to peer behind him from where he was sprawled on his stomach – and spotted a pair of Maguanacs sat about 100 yards away, casually ‘reading’ newspapers.

“They think they're being so stealthy, I don't have the heart to tell them I clocked them when they followed us from the hotel,” Quatre explained, with amusement clear in his voice. “They've been trying very hard to hover less since I ticked them off about personal space. I don’t want to discourage them.”

“Did you get much work done?” Trowa asked, settling himself down on the other side, keeping a careful distance so as not to crowd him.

Here Quatre did frown slightly, pursing his lips in displeasure and picking up the book on his stomach to flick through it with half-open eyes. He let out a dissatisfied noise.

“I did,” he said, “but it’s hard when I disagree with so much of the reference material.”

“On principal, or…?”

“They keep citing my father.” He sat up, knocking the daisy off his face as he did so and pulled his bag around to stuff the book inside. Duo twisted his face eloquently in response.

“Awkward.”

“To put it mildly,” Quatre agreed with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his hair and looking rueful. “But I suppose not entirely unexpected. It’s just rather difficult having them dissect his business practices and interviews, going over his personal life with a fine tooth comb to see how that impacted his methods. I’m aware of his flaws, and that his policies were not always welcomed, but to have to read about how a policy of non-violence is incompatible with business… well, it leaves a nasty taste, aside from just being wrong.”

He looked disgruntled, and a little miserable about it, but Trowa had no idea what to say. He glanced at Duo, who rolled his eyes and then scrambled back up on to his feet.

“I know what this calls for,” he declared, and disappeared, leaving Quatre and Trowa alone again, to make small talk. Sat there, Trowa wished he were better with words, more interesting or academic. But Quatre seemed happy to just sit, and be, so Trowa sat with him.

Twenty minutes later, Duo returned carrying a bag of beer, a couple of disposable barbecues and various burgers, followed behind by a bemused-looking Catherine carrying buns and ketchup. He dumped his acquisitions by Trowa, leaving him to find some rocks to set up the barbecues on, and stuck his fingers in his mouth to give a loud whistle, waving the Maguanacs - Ashraf and Mahmoud - over once he had caught their attention.

As barbecues went, it wasn’t the best in the world, but it was relaxed and fun, and by the end of it Trowa was feeling significantly less awkward about himself, which was a novel sensation.

Cathy seemed to have warmed up significantly towards Quatre, and had monopolised his conversation for most of the meal. To the point that by the time she was dusting herself off to leave, Quatre was passing her a piece of scrap paper torn from his notebook with his phone number on it. She glanced at Trowa at that, and grinned in a way which made him feel very nervous, as she slid the paper into her pocket. She ruffled Quatre’s hair with her free hand, and then convinced Ashraf and Mahmoud to walk her home, after Trowa and Duo agreed once more to ensure that Quatre would be escorted safely back to the hotel.

Left alone, the three of them pondered their beers, the night sky above, and the lights of the city just across the park, at once so near and so far away. The sound of the traffic was muted by the distance, and the warm breeze toyed lightly with their hair, chilling where the condensation from their cans touched their skin.

“We should do somethin’ tomorrow,” Duo said, suddenly. “Q, think you can get hold of a bike helmet before then?”

Quatre blinked at him, startled.

“…Probably?” he offered.

“We’ve got a show tomorrow,” Trowa warned.

“Not ‘til like four,” Duo said. “We can go somewhere close. Like, the statue park or somethin’, that’s nearby.”

“I’d like to go to Memento Park,” Quatre said thoughtfully, turning to look at Trowa. “It’s something I’ve been meaning to do for a while but never found time for.”

“That’s settled then!” The braided boy pushed himself to his feet and brushed the dirt off his shorts, grinning down at them. “Pick you up at nine tomorrow, Q?”

“Where are you going?” Trowa asked, frowning up at him as Duo drained the last of his beer and tossed the can into the designated rubbish bag that was sat beside Trowa.

“I gotta use to little boy’s room,” Duo said. “You can make sure Cinderella gets home safe, right?”

“If I’m Cinderella, what does that make you?” Quatre demanded.

Duo spun as he walked and shot him a saucy wink.

“I’m your fairy godfather,” he called back, before whirling around and jogging back towards the apartments.

There was a long pause as they watched him go, and then Trowa sighed, shaking his head and adding his empty can to the bag, holding it open for Quatre to place his in it before tying it shut and pushing to his feet.

“I suppose that makes me the pumpkin,” he said dryly, holding out his hand to haul Quatre up. “I’d better get you home before midnight, or I’ll stop being useful.”

It would have been a matter of minutes to get Quatre back to the hotel on the metro - the nearest station was just by the baths across the park, and it would have got them to the stop by the hotel with very little effort. But the blonde demurred, said he would rather walk, and enjoy the evening air, if Trowa didn’t mind.

Trowa didn’t, so they did. Side by side, down the main street. Companionable, and finally comfortable.

“You don’t mind if I hitch with you tomorrow, do you?” Quatre asked, as they drew up to the door.

Trowa took a moment to compose himself at the thought. He assumed Quatre would just prefer someone heavier to hold on to - Duo and Quatre were currently much the same in height, and Duo had a tendency to throw himself around corners with a bit more enthusiasm than was comfortable for someone riding pillion.

“No,” he said finally, offering Quatre a small smile. They drew to a stop and Quatre turned to stand in front of him, smiling right back.

“Great!” Quatre said, and then there was a strange shift in his smile, and he rocked forward half a step, getting that bit closer, almost as though he’d lost his balance and recovered. “I look forward to getting cosy with you tomorrow,” he purred teasingly, as he moved into Trowa’s space.

Startled, Trowa reflexively moved back again, away from the warmth of his body and that grin. There was a flicker of - something - over Quatre’s face, and then it was gone and he straightened, smiling as if nothing had happened.

“Good night!” he said, chipper and unconcerned, and then disappeared through the doors. Staring after him, Trowa tried to get his racing heart and mind to calm down before he turned.

To find Duo, stood behind him, arms spread wide and a comical expression of outraged confusion on his face.

“What the _fuck_ was that, man?” he demanded, as Trowa drew closer.

“What was what?” Trowa asked, not slowing his pace, letting Duo fall into step beside him.

“Jesus, Quat was basically holding a neon sign saying ‘KISS ME TROWA’ and you just absolutely choked,” Duo cried. “Between me and him we basically _handed_ you an opportunity and you bottled it. It’s like you don’t want to get laid.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Trowa said, trotting down the stairs to the metro station. He heard the exasperated sigh echo off the tiles, and then the clatter of footsteps as Duo crashed down the steps behind him. For a master of stealth, the American couldn’t half make some noise when he wanted to, flinging himself around the place melodramatically.

“I’m fucking not!”

Trowa didn’t deign to answer, waiting as the jolly yellow metro train pulled into the station - empty, for the time of night - and they hopped on. The carriages were old, and a little worn, but well-cared for and clean.

He tried not to think about the way he had wanted to mirror Quatre and step forwards when the blonde had, to steady him with an arm around his waist, and then lean in…

That wasn’t what Quatre wanted, no matter what Duo was saying. He needed to stop listening to it, to get himself under control. Quatre had plans. Quatre could do great things, do anything he wanted. Trowa was definitely not needed for that, and he had to stop kidding himself.

“Duo,” he said, suddenly, interrupting the diatribe Duo was subjecting him to, as the train pulled into their stop, “just leave it alone, alright?”

The braided boy threw his hands up in the air, but shut up, following him back across the park to their apartment in silence.

  


*

  


They picked Quatre up the next morning bang on time, the blonde holding a white helmet and waiting expectantly outside the front of the hotel.

“Enjoyin’ having him all wrapped around you?” Duo asked over the mics, once Quatre was settled onto the bike behind him, and they had pulled back onto the street.

“Shut up, Duo.”

“Chill out, he can’t hear us.”

“I wish I couldn’t hear you.”

That’s not to say he wasn’t enjoying it though, shamefully. The smaller boy was laminated to his back, arms firm around his waist, muscles shifting with every movement of Trowa’s. He was almost like an extension of Trowa’s body, instinctively working with him - except, he wasn’t, and damn if he wasn’t aware of exactly where he was pressed against him, thigh to chest, the heat at the contact more than just physical.

It had been much easier when Quatre had been far away, when Trowa had been detached and everything had been distant and muted. Everything was too much, too loud and he needed to really get a handle on himself. Reign his thoughts in, try not to think about the way Quatre’s crotch shifted against his ass when he lowered his leg, the way his hands relaxed to rest on his hips when they paused at lights. It was a good job they were wearing clothes, Trowa thought, and then found himself struggling to think of anything other than them both pressed like this naked and…

He’d clearly been spending too much time around Duo.

  


*

  


Outside the park was a giant statue of a pair of boots.

Well, the remains of a statue. The boots were all that had been left when the statue had been destroyed.

“Stalin,” Quatre said, looking at the guidebook they had bought. “It’s a replica of the only statue from the city surviving of him.”

“Brr,” said Duo, shuddering, and turning to head through the red brick gateway opposite - the gates flanked by a statue of Lenin on one side, peering imperiously down at them, and Marx and Engels on the other, watching impassively as they passed.

The park itself was comparatively small, with the statues arranged along a series circular paths around round patches of grass, a central lawn with a star of red flowers marking the middle. The paths were white and dusty, and on top of a hill, past the statues, you could see the valley around full of trees and homes.

It was eerily quiet, and even with the bright blue sky above them the colours seemed oddly muted.

“I’m sorry guys,” Duo muttered, as they slunk past busts of leaders from the Communist party. “The guide book said this would be kitschy. But it’s just…”

“It’s okay, Duo,” Quatre said, pausing to study a statue - black and straight and proud. “I think it’s good we came.”

It was strange how difficult some of the statues were to look at, Trowa thought. Even the abstract ones were so aggressive in their message, so clear in what they were saying. It was powerful and brutal, and people had lived their lives around them. To have something this heavy, this emotionally noisy, right in the centre of their city, their home. Resisting would be painful, a constant pressure against such a monstrous force.

He stood at the foot of a 6-meter tall soldier, bronze and muscled, flag streaming proudly behind him, and he realised why.

“Do you remember,” he asked the others quietly, “when you saw your first Alliance mobile suit?”

They came and stood beside him, flanking him, peering up at the soldier’s face.

“No,” Duo said eventually. “They were just… always there.”

“A constant,” Quatre agreed. “Almost background noise.”

Always there, looming over them, the message so much more than ‘here is a mobile suit’. Just like these statues, they’d been inherent in daily life, people inured to the swelling psychological pressure that weighed down on them from the presence of these gargantuan symbols of war and oppression.

Mostly inured, anyway, Trowa thought, as the train of consciousness met up with his own recent personal history.

“There will always be rebels,” he muttered, although it wasn’t entirely sad.

He felt the back of Quatre’s hand brush against his, gentle and reassuring, and it sparked tingles up his arm, a curling warmth in his belly.

“Unless there are people to question the status quo, it will never change,” Quatre agreed. “Society gets comfortable, and people can get used to anything.”

“Shyeah,” Duo snorted, giving the statue one last critical look before turning away with a sigh, hands shoved into his pockets to critically survey the rest of the park. A handful of other people had trickled in since they had arrived, and tinny Soviet music was being piped over speakers hidden throughout the grounds. The red flowers seemed strangely vivid in the bright summer light, almost like blood against the grass, surrounded by the monuments.

“At Christmas, Mariemaia said that war, peace, and revolution were the three beats of the endless waltz of humanity,” Trowa mused. “Cycling on and on forever.”

“She’ll have got that off Dekim,” Duo said with a derisive snort. “No nine-year-old comes up with that.”

“Maybe,” Trowa said. “But do you think it’s true? That another war is inevitable? Another revolution?”

To his right, Duo scowled and looked away, scuffing his foot on the floor, kicking up a small cloud of white dust. This was a little close to the nerve for him, but he needed to hear it, face it, and not just store it up until he could next punch something.To Trowa’s left, Quatre sighed thoughtfully.

“Dekim Barton was using that as an excuse to start another war, create another regime of oppression,” the blonde said. “He preyed on the insecurities of people who hadn’t settled after one conflict to try and ignite another. But it backfired, and instead the world chose peace. Peace was an active decision.” He flicked idly through the brochure in his hand. “I think by and large peace is what people want. The minority want conflict, and abuse their positions of power to get it. But the majority of the world want peace, and the fallout of the last war stripped back the old systems of government, rebuilding it to try to prevent the same thing happening again.”

“So you think we’ll have peace for good this time?” Duo didn’t seem convinced.

Quatre gestured around them, at the park.

“The actual title of this collection is ‘A Sentence About Tyranny’,” he told them. “People know they need to remember these things, they know the importance of not letting it be forgotten.”

“That worked so well in the past,” the braided boy muttered.

“I suppose we have to just keep working at it,” Quatre said brightly. “And hope that the world is full of inherently good people. Get out there and see them, help them.”

The response from Duo was a grunt and he slouched off to the next statue. Trowa gave Quatre an apologetic shrug.

“He’s… working through some things,” he offered. Quatre waved him off.

“We’ve all had to,” Quatre said with a smile. “Everyone does it at their own pace, in their own way. But it doesn’t have to be done alone.”

He reached out, his hand warm on Trowa’s bicep, squeezing gently, and then waiting for a second, two, as if there was something he was trying to say, before he removed it, and walked off after Duo.

It took a moment before Trowa realised his hand was brushing over the spot where Quatre’s had been a minute before, and he jerked it back quickly. Get it together, Barton, he told himself roughly. He needed to stop acting like a kid with a crush, he had more self control than that. It had been bad enough during the war.

Although, as Quatre turned slightly from up ahead to see if he was following, sun bright on his hair and a smile on his face, he found himself wondering if he actually had any control at all.

  
  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Memento Park is an interesting place. The guide book does describe it as 'kitschy' and they sell novelty souvenirs in a tiny booth in the park, but... I found it very sinister. It is well worth a visit, if you are ever in Budapest!  
>  
> 
> http://m.mementopark.hu
> 
> My continued love and thanks to Kangofu-cb for beta reading, and to all of you who are reading and leaving reviews and kudos. Each one is a lovely thing to receive and really helped me to get through the last push of my dissertation!!


	10. Erzsébet tér

“...Can I ask you something?”

Trowa paused for a moment, then continued to spray down the lion enclosure with the hose, rinsing away the muck that hadn’t been picked up when he had shoveled the dirty bedding out. The lions watched impassively through the locked gate, lazy in the afternoon sunshine, and placid after the just-finished show. Behind him, Cathy stood in the doorway, looking nervous. It was an unusual look for her, as was the question. Usually she just burst right into wherever he was and demanded he answer.

He tried to ignore the clenching of his stomach and keep his tone casual, impassive, as he answered.

“You just did.”

“Don’t be a little shit, you know what I mean.”

That was more like it, he thought with a small smirk. He turned to face her, arm extended behind him to keep the hose on target.

“Yes, you can ask me a question. What’s up?”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully, picking at the skin around her nails, avoiding his gaze. He waited, patiently, eyebrow raised as she wound herself up to whatever she wanted to say. It was obviously something big.

“How’re you liking it here?” she asked, finally, seemingly a non sequitur after the wait.

“Fine,” he said. “Seems like a nice enough city.”

“No, I mean…” She paused, sighed in slight frustration, tried again. “How d’you like staying in one place like this?”

Trowa gestured for her to turn the tap off, and she did, leaning out of the door to do so, and then taking the hose off him as he handed it over to her. She started to wind it up and he grabbed the stiff-bristled broom leant against the wall, sweeping the water and muck to the large drain in the corner of the room. He took the time to ponder his answer. Cathy often asked his opinion on things, and until recently it had usually ended in a fight when he had professed no real interest or investment either way.

Now, though?

“It’s good for the animals,” he began slowly, watching her out of the corner of his eyes. He could see her frowning slightly, but biting back any response until he’d finished, annoyed that when she asked for how he liked it, he was answering for the animals instead. “They’re relaxed, have more space, more enrichment. It’s easier to care for them.”

He stopped, leaned on the broom, and smirked at her as she folded her arms.

“I’m the same, I think,” he continued. “More space in my apartment than in the trailer, and I like not having to empty the chemical toilet. I can manage on the road, I always have, but there is something reassuring about having a solid building around you whilst you sleep. You forget, when you don’t do it regularly.” Turning back to his brushing, his smirk widened. “Why? Are you thinking of running away to join another circus?”

“You’re funny,” she drawled. “You ever think of becoming a clown, or something?”

“I hear you’ve got connections, think you can hook me up?”

Snorting, she took the broom he held out and passed through the net full of bedding that he started tossing around the place.

“Seriously, though,” he said. “You wouldn’t be all cagey if something else wasn’t behind this.”

Catherine sighed and shrugged.

“I was helping Bobby go through the accounts a while back, and… Traveling’s expensive, turns out.”

“No shit?”

“Go figure, right?” She gave him a self-deprecating grin, and moved backwards out of his way as he stepped up out of the enclosure.

He tugged the inner door shut behind him and latched it, pulling the release for the door to the outer enclosure. There was a long pause as the lions studied it curiously, before standing and stretching lazily, and padding their way back inside to investigate. The larger of the two came and pressed his side up against the barred door where Trowa stood, demanding pets. Trowa obliged, enjoying the low, rumbling purr he got, giant head nudging against his hands for scritches. Eventually he wandered off, the smaller came and gave Trowa a perfunctory lick, before plodding back outside to bask in the sunshine.

“Traveling’s expensive,” Trowa repeated, closing and locking the outer door to the enclosure, turning to face his sister more fully. “So… what?”

“The guys here contacted us to see if we could hold the fort for them whilst they toured,” Cathy explained. “Bobby wanted to see if people would be willing to stick around in a permanent set up. See if it paid off in the long run, costs-wise, and how it would work?”

“Huh,” Trowa said, face impassive, as they made their way out of the employee area of the Zoo, waving to other troupe members who were manning their own animal stations. “And is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Looking like it’ll pay off in the long run.”

“Oh.” A pause, a chewed lip and a hesitant grin. “Yeah, actually. I mean, this is based on the costings we’ve got here, for an established big top and audience but… yeah. We’d save on fuel, land rental, time for setup and take down… We wouldn’t have to jump through so many animal welfare hoops, and we’d have more money to invest in publicity too, and developing new acts, getting stuff custom built for us.”

The zoo was busy on the bright afternoon, bustling with families. Sticky-fingered children with ice lollies ran across the paths, pointing and shouting at what they saw. Trowa had always watched scenes like this from a distance, slightly detached. He still did, always the observer and cataloguer, but this time he wasn’t really even registering them. Turning Catherine’s implications over in his mind.

A permanent circus meant a permanent home. Somewhere that could be his, a chance to put down roots and establish himself, whatever that meant. He wouldn’t be able to just drift any more, because he couldn’t use the traveling as an excuse to avoid commitments.

The idea was strangely terrifying.

“So, why don’t we, then?” he forced himself to say, squinting at the meerkat enclosure at they passed, watching the rodents scurry around to the delight of all watching.

“That’s… sort of why I wanted to talk to you,” Catherine said. “About Quatre.”

He stopped short, turning to frown at her.

“I’m not asking him for money -”

“I don’t want his money!” Cathy interrupted, looking a little offended. “This isn’t going to be the Winner Enterprises Circus - it’s going to be  _ our _ circus. We’ll get the money for it  _ our _ way.”

A startled silence followed, as Trowa met his sister’s indignant gaze. People bustled past them, evidently oblivious to their tension.

“Why do you want him then?”

“...I wanted to ask his advice,” she said. “I was hoping he’d be able to help us put together a plan for it. And maybe he might know somewhere that might be… that might be good for us to go?”

“Oh.” Trowa wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he knew exactly what Quatre would say. “I’m sure he’d love to help.”

“So you’ll ask him?”

“...Yeah. I’ll ask him.”

  
  


*

  
  


He hadn’t expected to see Quatre again quite as soon as he did, however.

After parting ways the day before following their field trip, Trowa had decided that a few days’ break would be the best to get his thoughts in order. From the sounds of things, Quatre had planned to be deep in schoolwork for a bit as well. Which was good. Great even.

Trowa was unused to his emotions having such an impact on him. He had been slowly acclimating to being more open with them, exploring them in the context of his home at the circus, with Duo and Cathy.

Quatre’s arrival had been like a sucker punch, unprepared and unqualified for dealing with this, Trowa was struggling. He had thought his feelings for the blonde had been strong before, through his numbness.

Hoo boy.

As sucker punches went, this must have been how Houdini felt.

His plan for a few days’ of peace and quiet, of examining his feelings, getting used to how vivid they were and how to deal with them, working out how to distance himself again. It was like everything had been in black and white, and now was in saturated technicolour. So bright, and he was dazzled. He needed distance.

However, like all best-laid plans, it didn’t come to fruition.

Stood outside of the apartment, Trowa stared at the sock hooked over the doorknob, and wondered if he was having some kind of breakdown.

He had been slow out of the showers, having been pulled aside by Cathy more for hasty reassurances after the show that he would talk to Quatre. Duo had disappeared by the time he emerged to the basically empty big top - that was another luxury of the custom built circus, he mused, showers on site - and he strolled back to their apartment to find this sock on the door.

A sock on the door and a text hastily apologising, but that it had been a ‘now-or-never’ thing, and could he camp with Cathy for the night?

Glaring down at the offending item of clothing, Trowa seriously considered just barging in anyway, but he knew that Duo wouldn’t be the slightest bit bothered, and would probably just invite him to join in.

Annoyed, he tromped back down onto the street.

Cathy had a date this evening, so Trowa knew he’d be about as welcome as a cold there. He supposed he could go sleep in his trailer, although all the sheets and stuff had been moved to the apartment. Or he could find a quiet place in the park and nap there… but that had its own associated risks.

There was another option, but…

His fingers were moving to his phone before he could stop them, another shining example of why he had needed the time to get to grips with his self control again.

_ I know you’re working, but any chance I could crash on your couch? Long story, promise I’ll keep out your way. _

The response was almost instantaneous, and more enthusiastic than he’d expected, and damn if that didn’t send little flutters through him, as he started to walk across the park.

  
  


*

  
  


“He actually put a sock over the door?” Quatre laughed incredulously, from where he was sat at his desk, twisted in his chair to look at Trowa, lounging on the sofa behind him. “I mean, I’ve heard of people doing that in movies, but I didn’t think anyone did it in real life!”

Trowa rolled his eyes and shrugged expressively, making Quatre laugh even more.

The receptionist had given him the side-eye when he had arrived at the hotel, and called him back from the elevator before he could go up, demanding to know who he was here to see. She had looked skeptical when he had said Quatre, and downright annoyed when she had called his suite and Quatre had cheerfully told her to send him right up, and make sure some food followed him.

There was a large stack of books on the desks next to Quatre, balanced around a sleek laptop and a large notebook that was filled with small, neat cursive. If ever there was a sign of an organised mind, Quatre’s notebook was it.

“Don’t worry about me,” Trowa said, when Quatre finally settled down. “I can entertain myself, I don’t want to stop you working.”

“I think I’m probably done for the night,” Quatre admitted, looking back at the desk. “I’ve reached the point where I’m re-reading sentences and forgetting them immediately, so I think I need to start fresh in the morning. Besides -” he said, as there was a knock on the door, “I think that’s dinner.”

It was dinner. Two steaks, with chunky fries and salads, a bottle of wine and a couple of beers for Trowa.

“You like it rare, still, right?” Quatre asked, as the plates were unloaded onto the dining table and he tipped the room service attendant.

“Uh… Yeah. How…?”

“I thought I remembered it right,” the blonde said cheerfully, taking his seat when Trowa joined him. “But it was back when we first met, so I couldn’t be entirely sure. I’m glad!”

It took Trowa a moment to realise what Quatre was telling him, and he took the jug of peppercorn sauce off him on autopilot, pouring it over the steak before he’d realised what he was doing.

This was the exact same meal Quatre had given him after they’d surrendered to each other in Corsica. The cut of steak, the salad leaves… Even the sauce. Quatre had remembered it precisely, ordered it specifically, had it sent up here.

Quatre had remembered it.

He didn’t know what to make of that, what that could mean, his heart was beating a little faster, he felt warmer, and he could feel panic rising, so he grabbed a beer and hastily changed the subject.

“You brought your violin with you,” he settled for, relieved his voice came out sounding normal. He tilted his bottle to where the instrument was sat on the coffee table, in case Quatre had forgotten where he’d put it.

“Always,” Quatre told him with a grin and a quirk of his eyebrows. “It’s something I can do when I just want to close my eyes and not think of anything. Do you still have your flute?”

“Yeah. I don’t play it enough though.”

“I feel like that about the piano,” Quatre said, sighing slightly ruefully. “It’s a little trickier to bring one of those with me when I travel.”

“What about the one in the foyer?”

“Oh, yes, that would look really good wouldn’t it?” Quatre gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Quatre Winner shows off to captive audience in his hotel! No, thank you. I’m too recognisable here.”

Trowa watched him thoughtfully, glancing back at the violin, and wondering if what he was going to suggest was stupid.

Probably less stupid than sitting in here all night pretending to be a normal person, and that he wasn’t having a coronary every time Quatre smiled at him.

“I have an idea,” he said.

  
  


*

  
  


There were a lot of piano bars in Budapest. It was a bit of a thing. Basement bars, jazz bars, prohibition bars, garden bars, boats which were bars… It was a bright city, organic and pulsing with life.

They chose one of the boat bars in the end, after deciding that being crammed into a dark, brick building would be too stuffy for such a warm night. The air off the Danube was slightly cooler, fresher. On the top of the cliff on the opposite side, the grand palace was lit up, white and gloriously extravagant against the night sky. Its bright, smooth walls contrasted with the rough grey stone of the cliff.  Further down the river, across from the palace, was the towering red, neo-gothic facade of the parliament, the architectural contrast to the palace - a warped reflection.

The boat they chose was directly opposite the grand monument to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and most people were sat on the boat looking up at it and marvelling. Those with their backs to it were trying to take selfies to fit it in shot.

The top deck was open at the sides, letting the breeze drift across the patrons, fairy lights strung across the canopy overhead.

The piano was on a small stage at the stern, and currently occupied. They slid into a small table near the front, listening to the gentle jazz that was filling the deck, delightful background noise to allow a gentle level of small talk. The beer in Trowa’s hand was cold, condensation slippery on the glass. Across the table, Quatre looked relaxed, calm, listening appreciatively to the music, but even Trowa could see his gaze sweeping the crowd apparently casually. Trowa had done the same when they’d arrived, positioned them so each of them covered the other’s blind spots, clocking exits, lines of sight, escape routes automatically.

He wondered if there was ever going to be a point in his future where he wouldn’t need to do that.

He doubted it.

The pianist finished, took a bow to polite applause, and stepped off to the side. The MC appeared to thank him, and announce a short break before the next act. More applause, then the level of chatter resumed, louder than before, and everyone turned to face their dates, friends, families. Waiters returned to the bar, or bowed low over tables to take orders, collect glasses, distribute drinks.

The stage was entirely removed from their consciousness.

They sat a few minutes longer in silence, sipping drinks, glancing around the room, before Trowa looked across the table and found Quatre watching him instead, a spark of mischief in his eyes, and tugging at the corner of his lips. It sent a thrill down his spine, and he felt his own lips quirking in response.

Tilting his head in acknowledgement, Trowa stood smoothly, turning his back to the stage, his movement and size easily hiding Quatre’s movements from view as he set his shoulders, making himself as broad as possible and casually strolling towards the bar, making sure any eyes that were drawn to the movement were drawn to him, and not the small figure behind him.

Which meant that the first notes were ringing out across the deck before anyone noticed the blonde seated at the piano. Bright, bold and cheerful, Quatre’s fingers flew across the keys, as naturally as breathing, the melody fluid, stirring through his veins and broadening that grin on his face.

By standing, he was managing to block the easiest route to the stage, as waiters tried to get across the crowded floor to him - the other routes blocked by chairs, punters, tables. He made as though he was trying to dodge out of the way, but managed to keep putting himself in the way, making more of a nuisance of himself, trying not to laugh at the frustration evident on their faces.

When they finally shoved him impatiently aside into a table, he twisted, hooked his leg out, managed to bring down the waiter at the front, and as a result the three waiters pushing behind him. As he turned, he got a full view of Quatre playing - sat at the piano like it was a throne, fingers and wrists moving so quickly, so confidently, like the fast song was no effort at all.

He looked glorious.

And then the waiters managed to scramble to their feet, and Quatre’s eyes met his across the bar, and that unexpectedly wicked grin was back, and he nodded.

Trowa twisted easily away from the grip that was shooting for him, matching Quatre pace-for-pace as the blonde dived off the stage. Three long steps took them to the edge of the boat, then their feet were on the railing, and they were leaping, side by side, onto the quayside. Landing on the balls of their feet, knees bent, they shared a look, and then used their momentum to push themselves into a sprint, up the sloping street away from the river, shouts echoing after them.

When they finally stopped, they were a good distance away, and out of breath from laughing as much as running. Trowa leaned back against a building whilst Quatre bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath around wheezing laughs.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done anything like that,” Quatre gasped, forcing his breathing to slow down, and straightening up, hands sliding to his hips.

“You mean you’ve gatecrashed a piano bar before?” Trowa managed with a raised eyebrow, and swiping his hand across his forehead.

“Don’t you know? I’m a wanted criminal,” Quatre joked, and then in a few quick steps was right in front of Trowa, pinning him against the wall. Their bodies weren’t touching, not quite, but it was close, and his head was tilted up to meet Trowa’s eyes coyly. “Fastest fingers in the West.”

He arched his back slightly, stretched a little, bringing his lips very close to Trowa’s. For his part, Trowa’s brain had been trying to think of a smart comeback but was now being throttled down by a rising sense of alarm. His mouth was dry and his throat seized up, his senses otherwise overwhelmed by the warmth of the body near his, the smell, the intensity of that gaze. His body wanted to go for it, his higher thought processes had dissolved in panic about what that would  _ mean _ , and what if it was a mistake, and trying to categorise an awful lot of suddenly very strong emotions very quickly.

Quatre waited a long moment, a considering expression in his eyes, before he twisted away just as casually as he arrived, still smiling, but giving Trowa his space back.

“I’ve crashed piano bars all over the world,” he continued blithely. “The Quick Key Kid, that’s what they call me.”

“You’re a menace,” Trowa managed to force out, and his voice almost sounded normal. “Will your reign of terror never end?”

The blonde shot him a warm, encouraging smile, and started to stroll out of the side street they were in out into the wide square in front of them. Across the road, a park sat, an island in the metropolis. Square and unassuming it was mostly grass and path, with sculptures dotted around it. The fountains were switched off for the evening, and on the far side the long, shallow pond was lit up with lights from the bar underneath. The steps leading down to it were bathed in warm light and people meandered in and out, laughing and chatting. The metro station across the way churned out more people, and the smell of fresh pastries wafted through the doors from the bakery just inside.

For all that, though, it felt peaceful, relaxed as they strolled the paths idly, taking the circuitous route across towards Andrassy Ut and the hotel.

One of the sculptures they passed, an abstract metal cube, was covered in padlocks, and Quatre paused to admire them, turning some over to inspect the engravings on them. He had a wistful expression on his face, and Trowa watched him carefully, stood a distance away, trying to pull himself together.

Had he understood that right? Had that been what he thought it was? Even if Duo had insisted the other day had been a moment, it could have just been a stumble. And remembering the dinner, that could just be sentimentality, or just Quatre hedging his bets on a simple meal that he knew Trowa would like.

Trowa had long since become used to the idea that his feelings for Quatre - even when they had been distant and through a haze of non-committal disinterest - were never to be acted on. That Quatre was too good for him, too good to be interested in him. Even in the last few months, as he had been discovering what emotions felt like unfiltered, it had been an impossibility, a comforting promise of ‘never’ that was unchanging as everything else moved around him.

The prospect of ‘never’ becoming ‘whenever you want to’ was inexpressibly terrifying.

It wasn’t like being able to make chit chat around the circus, it wasn’t like giving Duo shit, or actually  _ finally _ being able to properly have a conversation with Cathy.

Those didn’t alter the status quo.This would.

It would be a commitment, a declaration, a decision. One he made for himself, and had to stand behind and commit to.

He’d done that during the war, sure, but that was a Cause. That was something bigger than him, and therefore removed. This was small scale, and infinitely more terrifying for being that much closer.

“I’d like to leave something like this one day,” Quatre said, finally. “A mark that is permanent, that says ‘I was here’.”

“...You’ve got a giant, multi-national corporation,” Trowa managed, once the statement had filtered through his consciousness. “And several charities.”

Quatre turned and dimpled at him.

“Those aren’t really  _ mine _ though,” he said, waving a hand vaguely to illustrate as he started walking again. “They’re bigger than me - anyone could run those. But - those locks could only have been left by those people. A little thing, but something very individual, and human. Intimate.” He spun again to face Trowa directly. “Let’s play a game!”

“What kind of game?” Trowa asked suspiciously. His hands were shoved in his pockets, his body language screamed casual, unconcerned. He could assume a mood, he had always been able to. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous.

“Word association! I’ll say a word, you reply with the first word that comes to mind. So, like... Banana.” Quatre gestured to him to continue.

“...Splits?” Trowa offered.

“Gymnastics.”

“Acrobatics.”

“Circus,” Quatre said.

And just like that, emotions and thoughts were flashing through him. Images of Catherine, Duo, the rest of the troupe, the animals – remembering travelling with Heavyarms, the way they had supported him, protected him, accepted him back unquestioningly after that stunt at the Oz base, the stunt that could have got them all locked up for harbouring a gundam, if not killed in the crossfire – he hadn’t thought about that at the time, but afterwards he had realised what it meant, felt guilty that he’d put them in danger, that he’d made Cathy cry.  And then they hadn’t even blinked when Catherine had turned up with him again, on that colony, unable to remember anything. She had declared him her brother, and they had accepted it without flinching. He was Catherine’s brother, he was one of them, and they’d keep him safe and treat him well no matter what. It was reassuring, supportive, and surprising that anyone would bother. Even the mercs hadn’t been so egalitarian.

Quatre was watching him, head tilted to the side as if listening carefully to something, with a patient, thoughtful expression.

“Family,” he blurted, and then wondered if that was a mistake when a slow, pleased smile spread across Quatre’s face.

“Love,” said Quatre.

It seemed like the blonde was intent on trying to mess with Trowa, whether he realised it or not. He kept his face impassive, but the issues that his psyche was currently wrestling with barged their way to the forefront of his mind, making his stomach clench and his throat tighten. Panic, fear, guilt, confusion, all swirled together around the idea that love was best when it was alone, because acting on it held far more possibilities than he was ready to face.

“...I don’t think I’m very good at this game,” he said, after a pause that was longer than it should have been. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay, it was just something silly anyway.” Quatre waved him off, and that was that - done, dealt with, no issues.

They walked the rest of the way back to the hotel in silence, Quatre appeared to be thinking as deeply as Trowa was, mulling something over in his mind. They got a glare when they arrived back, from the Maguanac who was in the foyer, clearly displeased he had been ditched.

Quatre just smiled angelically at him, and went straight for the elevator, Trowa trailing behind.

“You know,” he said, breaking the silence as the doors slid open with a ‘ping’, “that piece I played earlier?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s got a violin and flute part.” Quatre turned, looked directly up at him, hopeful and open. “Maybe you could come over and we could play it together?”

“...That’d be nice,” Trowa told him. He got a dazzling smile in response.

  
  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- there are lots of lovely bars in Budapest, and the views from the boat bars are glorious.
> 
> \- the song I imagine Quatre playing is this one, but obvs the piano part only (he's not that good)
> 
> https://youtu.be/CQDI5ra16Nw
> 
> Thank you all for reading, commenting and leaving Kudos! It means an awful lot!! And thanks again to Kangofu-cb for beta reading and encouraging!


	11. Városliget

Trowa spent the night not really sleeping on the sofa in Quatre’s suite.

Quatre had offered to get a room set up for him, but that had seemed excessive. He’d also offered to share the bed with him, since it was so big, but that seemed like a Terrible Idea, so Trowa stayed firmly on the sofa.

It wasn’t that it was an uncomfortable sofa - it was more comfortable than some beds he’d slept in - but he couldn’t settle. He was struggling to remember how to compartmentalise, to file uncomfortable emotions away so he could get on with his life, and stop worrying. It was a skill he’d had all his life, but right now it had abandoned him.

He gave up when the sun started to creep through the gaps in the curtains, and stood, stretching and wondering if it was too early to go back to the apartment. What were the odds of Duo having turfed his guest out?

Well, at least in the day time he could nap in the park without worrying the police would think he was a vagrant.

He scrawled a note on the pad of post-its on Quatre’s desk -  _ thank you for letting me stay, and for dinner, please can you call Cathy, she wants your help with something _ \- and then snuck out of suite, closing the door silently behind him,

Deciding to walk back to the apartment, to both give Duo a little more leeway, and to see if the fresh air would help clear his head a bit, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and tried not to look like he was doing the Walk of Shame.

Nowhere was open yet, and whilst it was warm the air was still fresh, the moisture in the air from the dew cutting through the building heat. In a few hours it would be gone, leaving the air dry and scorching. But for now it was pleasant. Invigorating, if you were feeling generous.

Trowa wasn’t.

By the time he got to the apartment, he had very much decided that even if Duo’s guest was still there, they could damn well deal with it.

So it was a bit of a shock when the door opened before his hand could even touch the handle, and he found himself face-to-face with not one but two startled strangers. Two.

Oh. That’s why it had been now-or-never.

Two sets of eyes stared back at him, looking shocked, and he wondered if he really looked that awful. No sleep, so probably.

“Er,” said the man. “Can we help you?”

“This is my apartment,” Trowa said, and the pair of them relaxed, the woman letting out a relieved laugh.

“Oh, that’s good! Duo had to leave early - he got a text, said it was an emergency? We didn’t want to just let any randomers into his apartment when we left.”

Trowa resisted the urge to reply ‘randomers like you two?’, but even fatigue hadn’t made him that petty, and he bit his tongue and stepped aside to let the pair leave. They filed out into the hall, with polite ‘nice to meet you’s, and then laced their fingers together as they strolled away. He watched them for a moment, the hand-holding making him feel extra irritable.

Stomping into the apartment and shutting the door with perhaps more force than necessary, he wondered what would have come up at this time or morning for Duo that would count as ‘urgent’. And then decided that, frankly, he didn’t care all that much. If it had been a real issue, Duo would have called him too, and if it wasn’t a real issue, frankly Duo could handle it himself.

He was reassured to see that his bed was still made, whilst Duo’s was… at best, an abstract image of what bedsheets should look like. There were a lot of tissues and condom wrappers thrown haphazardly in the waste paper basket, and a few towels tossed onto the sheets.

Lovely.

At least the window was open, so it didn’t smell too funky. Aside from that, it wasn’t his problem and so, shucking his clothes, he flopped onto the bed and finally managed a deep, if not necessarily restful, sleep.

  
  


*

  
  


Duo hadn’t reappeared by the time Trowa woke up, and with a few hours’ sleep under his belt, he managed to find it in his heart to drop him a text to check he was still alive. And then he slouched his way to the shower, rinsing off the last of the fatigue and most of his uncertainty from the night before.

Coffee restored the rest of his equilibrium, and, a few hours to go before he was needed at the Big Top, he took advantage of his roommate’s absence to spend some time trying to rebuild his mental walls, fortify his defences.

With some discomfort, he called up every emotion he had been caught off guard with ever since arriving in Budapest, forced himself to examine them carefully, find the triggers, and grow familiar with the sensations they evoked. He exposed himself to them until he felt that they could not long affect him, and he was able to file them away, as he had done so many times before.

Learn to identify, learn to resist, push to the back.

It’d done him well for years, it’d do him well for a few more.

When he arrived at the circus prior to the performance, he was feeling pretty well-balanced, and confident that he could handle most things.

Which was good, because Duo arrived only shortly before the show, and he was in a mood like Trowa hadn’t seen for weeks. He stormed through the backstage area like a thunderclap, and everyone in the room tensed as he grabbed his costume and then shut himself in a toilet and wouldn’t come out.

Mainly because no-one wanted to go near him when he was in this sort of mood. They’d learned their lessons in the past. But as time wore on, Alexei, Sasha and Ana started standing near to Trowa and fidgeting in a nervous manner that meant they wanted him to fix it, because whilst Ivan’s air boot was off, he was in no position to fling anyone or be flung anywhere.

Before he could go intervene, however, Duo reappeared in time for his act, a showbiz smile plastered on his face, and only his eyes showing that anything could potentially be wrong. Trowa watched from the wings, but everything went smoothly, and he performed every bit as well as he did on a normal night. But at the end, he brushed past Trowa and disappeared into the shower immediately. The expressions on the faces of the others were telling - it had gone well, but every time they had met Duo’s eyes they had been filled with a sense of impending doom and imminent terror.

Good. Great. Just what he needed.

But he couldn’t deal with it right now - he had his own act to do.

  
  


*

  
  


Duo had been noticeably absent from the ‘curtain call’ at the end of the show, and Trowa had headed to the showers hastily to see if he was there, but they were empty. Swearing, he stripped off his costume and scrubbed himself quickly, before changing back into his normal clothes.

“Has anyone seen Duo?” he called. He got head shakes and shrugs in response, a few expressive grimaces, and one gesture to the door out towards the foyer.

Cathy was stood by the door, holding a bottle and looking concerned. She turned to Trowa as he approached, and as she did the door opened behind her and Quatre appeared.

Oh good, this day was going from bad to terrible.

Quatre looked between the two of them, and his smile immediately dropped into a frown. They reached Catherine at the same time, and she looked between the two of them, and let out a heavy sigh. She held the bottle out to Trowa, lips pressed firmly together, looking tired.

“Did he say anything?” Trowa asked, and Cathy shook her head.

“What’s wrong?” Quatre asked, clearly reading the mood and starting to worry, but Trowa ignored him, instead tugging off the scrap of paper that was attached to the neck of the bottle - vodka - with a hair tie and unfolding it quickly.

It was a crudely drawn map, with an ‘x’ scrawled on it.

“What does it say?” Catherine craned her head to see it.

“He’s on the park,” Trowa said, passing it to her. “I’ll see you later,” he told Quatre, and made to step around him and out the door.

Perhaps predictably, Quatre followed him as he strode out of the room, managing to keep pace with him easily, frowning at him.

“What’s happened? Is everything alright?” he demanded, once they were through the lobby and out on the street.

“It’s…” Trowa paused, huffed out an irritated breath. “It’s not  _ fine,  _ but it will be, probably.”

“What will be? Trowa, what’s going on?”

He grabbed Trowa’s arm, stopping him walking and tugging him around to face him with surprising strength. His grip only tightened when Trowa tried to pull away.

“This isn’t something you can help with, Quatre,” he insisted.

“Not if you won’t tell me what it is, I can’t,” the blonde snapped.

“It’s just Duo,” Trowa told him. “He’s been working through some stuff, and sometimes that involves us punching each other and then drinking. Something’s set him off today, so…”

He gestured towards the park with the bottle and raised his eyebrows expectantly, before looking pointedly at Quatre’s hand on his arm.

“That’s not a healthy way to deal with things,” Quatre said, ignoring the look and keeping his hand in place.

“It works for us,” Trowa snapped. “Are you going to let me go, or are you going to follow me the whole way?”

He regretted asking it as soon as the words were out of his mouth, because the blonde’s face instantly took a determined cast and he released Trowa, only to gesture for him to lead the way, and matched step with him as they crossed the road and headed into the more densely wooded areas of the park, leaving Heroes’ Square behind them. He should have known that Quatre would want to try to fix everything. And he wouldn’t understand that talking things through wasn’t how they worked.

Quatre always looked for the nonviolent solution, and that was great. But Duo and Trowa were too twisted to just handle things in a healthy way, by just talking. This would be dirty and it would almost certainly upset the blonde.

He didn’t need Quatre to see either of them like this. To see what a mess he was.

“Maybe you should go back,” he said, as they drew closer to the location on Duo’s map. “This is going to be pretty brutal.”

The look he got in response was withering, and he stopped, a little startled, leaving Quatre to stride past him into the clearing where Duo was sat, leaning against a tree, eyes closed and head resting against the bark.

When he heard footsteps, he stood and turned, only to frown when he saw Quatre.

“What’re you doing here?” he demanded. “This isn’t any of your business.”

“Get over yourself,” Quatre told him, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt sleeves and rolling them up to his elbow, crossing the space to stand in front of Duo as Trowa caught up. “This is your unhealthy way of dealing, fine, we’ll do it, but then you’re going to learn how to face problems like a grown up.”

Duo raised his eyebrows, glanced over his shoulder at Trowa, who shrugged hesitantly, and then he laughed darkly.

“I ain’t fightin’ you, Q. Get outta here. We can talk later.”

”No, thanks, we’ll do this now.”

“This is mine and Tro’s thing,” Duo explained, clearly becoming irritated. “We know how it works, we ain’t gonna take it personal when it gets nasty. Piss off, alright?”

The punch Quatre threw was so quick Trowa nearly missed it. It didn’t miss Duo though, hitting Duo square in the jaw, knocking him back a few startled steps. The braided boy’s hand went to the rapidly reddening mark, and he stared at his friend, who had fallen into an easy fighting stance and was looking impatient.

“Are you going to hit me back, Maxwell?” Quatre taunted coldly. “Or are you going to roll over and let me beat you up and down this park because you’re too embarrassed to have your temper tantrum in front of me?”

There was another beat, two, of silence, and then Duo’s face twisted in a snarl and he launched himself at Quatre, furious.

The blonde met him blow-for-blow, with equal ferocity, and Trowa didn’t know who was more surprised - himself or Duo.

He had anticipated, as Duo probably had, that Quatre would fight the way he had the scant handful of times Trowa had seen him fight during the war. Efficient, precise, ending things as quickly as possible in as few moves as he could. Trowa had thought that Quatre would probably put Duo down and consider the matter handled. He was fully expecting to have to step in and take over in short order.

Evidently… not.

Quatre showed no intention of stopping any time before Duo did, and he wasn’t holding back either. Neither of them had the power the other three pilots had - they weren’t weak by any means, but their fighting styles favoured speed, quick strikes and weak spots. And the blows they were exchanging were vicious, nasty kicks and punches, gouges and grapples.

Their paces were matched as well, Trowa realised after a moment. He wasn’t trying to take Duo down, just keep him fighting until he dropped. Duo - angry, frustrated, and off-step for it being Quatre not Trowa - was tiring himself, because as with every fight they’d had, each punch was an outlet for some increment of the rage inside. Quatre - measured, calculating, strategic - was keeping him moving and working, conserving energy to use only as much as he needed for the strikes to be effective. As Duo slowed, Quatre dropped his pace accordingly.

The only thing that was inefficient was that he was letting more blows through his guard on his torso, because his efforts were more concentrated on protecting his neck and face.

After a while, Trowa sat on the floor and made himself comfortable back against a tree, twisting the cap off the vodka and taking a generous swig. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do, apparently. Instead, he let the alcohol burn down his throat and watched, wondered if it looked like this when he and Duo fought.

He doubted it. There was more rolling in the dirt for one thing, but Quatre always managed to lend class to any occasion.

Eventually, Duo stepped aside from a punch, and wrapped his arm around Quatre’s shoulders - not a grab or a hold, but a winded hug. A cessation of hostilities. That was it, done.

Both of them breathing heavily, they leaned against each other as they limped across to Trowa, who held the bottle out to them wordlessly. They took it, had a large mouthful each, then slowly slumped down onto the grass.

“Feel better for that?” Trowa asked, finally, not entirely sure who he was addressing.

“You two are idiots,” Quatre said sourly. “You need to learn how to cope like normal people.”

“Teach us your ways, Guru of Mental Health,” Duo wheezed sardonically, before taking another long pull of vodka. “The twelve step programme. Starts with brawlin’ in woods, ends with us bein’ socially functional billionaires.”

“Socially functional billionaires who kicked your ass,” Trowa pointed out, and Duo snorted. “What was it this time?”

“Wufei’s comin’ to Budapest.”

There was a long, tense pause. Duo kept drinking. Trowa and Quatre shared a look.

“When?”

An expressive shrug in response. He started picking at the label on the bottle, little flakes of white paper fluttering down to his lap and the floor.

“How-?”

“Heero texted me this mornin’ - apparently he’s stoppin’ by on the way back from another assignment. Wants to talk to you,” Duo said, looking pointedly at Trowa. “Une’s askin’ him to find us all, apparently. He knows you’re here.”

Trowa frowned and held out his hand for the bottle. The head of the Preventers looking for him wasn’t exactly a comfortable feeling, even if he knew logically he hadn’t done anything to piss her off recently. The circus had stopped smuggling weapons when he had blown up his suit.

“What about you?” Quatre asked. Duo shook his head, scuffed his foot in the dirt, grinding grass viciously beneath the heel of his sneaker.

“Heero told him I was in the colonies. Thought I’d prob’ly wanna avoid him.”

“Do you?”

“...I’m feeling rested, can we go back to punching?”

Quatre shot him a flat look, and Duo made a disgusted noise, shifting awkwardly on the grass to get comfortable on the bruises he had recently received. Trowa snorted and took the vodka off him.

“Don’t waste your time,” he advised. “He doesn’t know what he wants.”

“Oh, and you  _ do _ ?” Duo demanded, eyes narrowing, a martial glint in them. “Don’t start this game with me, your vulnerable bits’re more exposed than mine right now.”

If he was expecting that statement would cause Trowa’s eyes to flick to the blonde sat beside him, he was disappointed. Trowa instead held his gaze with equanimity, but tilted his head slightly to acknowledge the point. If the message was noticed by Quatre, it was ignored, as he sighed and ran a hand through his fight-mussed hair, taking it from unruly to artfully tousled.

It would be easy to hate someone for whom life seemed to come so easily, Trowa thought, suddenly. Someone who excelled in everything they achieved, who was so attractive and styled, confident and smart. It would almost be irritating that added to all that he was guileless, considerate and fucking  _ nice _ about it all too… How did you compete with that?

How did you  _ commit _ to that? How did you say “yes, I’m going to be good enough, be everything you deserve, for ever”?

Nope. That wasn’t likely. Trowa was honest enough about who he was, and he had no illusions at all about what that meant. After all, Cathy had begged him to commit often enough that it had practically become the soundtrack to his life.

He took another swig of vodka. It was burning less each time – probably a sign it was working – and he passed it back to Duo again.

“So,” Quatre asked, “are you angry at Wufei, or at yourself for not being there to help him?”

In response, Duo took the opportunity to demonstrate how painful it was to inhale liquid vodka, abruptly, and spit a large amount out as he coughed. Eventually he subsided into a bit of wheezing, wiping at his watery eyes, he glowered at the blonde, who was watching him with a raised eyebrow and an unconcerned expression, lounging back on the grass like he owned it.

“I’m not-“ He paused, sighed irritably and wheezily. “Both? Neither. I dunno.”

“You should work it out,” Quatre advised blithely. “That way maybe you won’t have to keep hiding from him.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, thank you, I’m washing my hair tonight.”

Trowa just about managed to turn his snigger into a cough, but Duo wasn't buying it, and even he let his lips quirk slightly.

“Figures,” he drawled, “after all that 'not the face’ shit you were pullin’ back there.”

“When the day arrives that I can get away with wearing spades of stage makeup to meetings,you can be the first to give me a black eye,” Quatre promised. “Until then, I’m afraid I have to protect my money maker.”

“I’d say that was on the other end,” Duo said, with a leer and dramatic eyebrow waggling. He stood, clearly stiffening and creaky, and held out his hand to pull Quatre to his feet. The blonde rolled his eyes but accepted the assistance. Trowa was left to fend for himself, so he snagged the vodka bottle as compensation.

They made their way slowly back towards the square, the circus, the apartments, and it was largely in silence. Too much to say tying their tongues, rather than simply having nothing to say. Duo declined emphatically the task of escorting Quatre back to the hotel, since “the pocket rocket can obviously fend for himself”, and he and the bottle of vodka made their way to the apartment alone, leaving Trowa to guide Quatre onto the metro, because if Rashid found out he’d been left to his own devices, essential body parts would almost certainly be removed. And probably reinserted somewhere they didn't belong.

Even if the pocket rocket  _ could  _ fend for himself.

“I'm not that much shorter than him,” Quatre muttered, frowning at Duo’s back. “I’ve definitely caught up.”

“You’ve done a very good job,” Trowa reassured him, trotting down the stairs into the metro station. “Excellent heightening.”

“You’re relieved,” Quatre observed stepping into the final car of the train that pulled up, empty save for the two of them.

“I am.”

He settled into a seat at the very back of the car, and Quatre stood opposite him, holding onto one of the handrails and swinging consideringly on it as he studying Trowa.

“You didn’t think I could do it,” he said.

“That’s not -” Trowa started, then stopped himself, and nodded. “I didn’t think you would understand what he needed.”

The blonde hummed and smiled thoughtfully, pulling himself more upright and leaning back against the poles, hands tucked behind his back holding them steady. Trowa met his eyes and tried not to feel like he was exposing himself too much. The bright blue eyes seemed very bright all of a sudden, too intense.

“I knew it, but thank you for not lying,” Quatre said finally, tilting his head to the side as if the change in angle would help him unpick a sticky problem. “You keep underestimating me, Trowa. Why, I wonder?”

“It’s not that…” Trowa said, a little guilty. “You have a very different background from the rest of us. You handle things differently, and have different principals.”

The blonde sighed, looked to the ceiling and pressed his lips together firmly. He looked like he was asking for strength. Trowa’s stomach clenched, like he had said something wrong, regret, guilt, a bit of fear threading through him.

“The thing about Duo,” Quatre said slowly, “is that he likes to pretend he is happy all the time. So he pushes things down, and breezes over them. And they build up, and up, and he doesn’t know how to let them out - so they eventually they come out screaming like this.”

The train rattled to a stop, and the doors opened, conversation pausing as they disembarked and made their way to the exit.

“He doesn’t like feeling bad - when he hurts inside, he doesn’t know what to do with it. Hurting on the outside? That he understands. That he can do something about. So each bit of outside hurt makes a bit of the inside hurt feel better.”

That was… pretty near to the knuckle, Trowa thought, trying to control his breathing, keep his face casual. His companion was watching him out of the corner of his eye, shrewdly.

“He’s not good at just ‘being’ either, because when you stay still, that’s when the bad feelings come and they’re hard to ignore. So then he goes out, chasing thrills and highs to mute bad things out.” He turned to Trowa, shrugged and spread his hands expansively. “But that’s not sustainable. He needs to learn how to accept the bad feelings and process them in a healthy way, because then they won’t build up like this. Sometimes, you’re not going to be happy. Sometimes he’s gonna feel bad. And that’s okay.”

They drew up outside the hotel, and Quatre turned to stand in front of Trowa, a perfect recreation of the other day, Trowa just as off-balance.

“I understand how he’s feeling, because when I’m near him,  _ I’m _ feeling it too,” Quatre said, putting emphasis on the words, looking searchingly at Trowa’s face, trying to make sure his meaning was understood. “I know the best way to deal with these emotions, because I’ve had to learn to deal with  _ everyone’s _ . I tried fighting the feelings, tried getting angry, and running away from them, but that’s exhausting. You can’t move forwards doing that.” He stepped forward, into Trowa’s space again, and Trowa stiffened, but held his ground. “You can’t be happy doing that.”

Trowa’s mouth had gone dry a long time ago, his throat seized up in panic. The meaning had come across, alright, and suddenly he was remembering everything since he had bumped into Quatre again. Everything he had thought - everything he had felt. He felt exposed, vulnerable, humiliated and guilty. It was one thing to know academically that Quatre had empathic abilities, but somehow he’d never quite put the two and two together in the same context as him.

Shit.  _ Shit _ .

The blonde’s eyes never left his face, watching him, and then his smile turned a little sad. He nodded, once. Reached out to put a hand on Trowa’s arm, then thought better of it.

“It’s alright, Trowa,” he said, quietly, gently. “It’s alright, I promise.”

He couldn’t do anything but watch, mutely, as Quatre retreated into the hotel.

  
  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for all your support. I have struggled with this fic a lot, so I am very happy that you are all enjoying it, and being so kind with your feedback.
> 
> The Városliget is the city park, which the circus sits on the edge of in Budapest! :)


	12. Fővárosi Nagycirkusz

A week later, there was a meeting in the Big Top.

Baffled, the troupe clustered on the seats around the ring, watching Cathy and Mr Roberts set up a flip chart, exchange nervous glances and clear their throats.

Sat at the back, Duo by his side, Trowa caught her eye and gave her an encouraging thumbs up. She relaxed slightly, smiled at him, and started talking.

She had been working on the pitch with Quatre over the last week. Trowa hadn’t seen him - had pointedly made himself scarce, but Cathy had kept him informed. She had also kept trying to reschedule and relocate their meetings to try and ensure he and Quatre ‘accidentally’ bumped into each other, but Trowa was smarter than that. Much to Cathy’s annoyance.

He could see Quatre’s coaching in the presentation they gave though - the calm, measured pace, the well-researched facts… the A3 charts and graphics they had on their flip chart. It was polished, it was professional.

Above all, it was convincing. Which, in the end, was what mattered.

By the end of the meeting, the troupe were in agreement - the plan was to have a site for a new, permanent Big Top within twelve months. Money would be raised towards construction and land purchase, to add to what had already been cautiously set aside by Mr Roberts. A tender would be put out to cities which already had municipal zoos, to see if they would be interested in joining with them, and expanding their facilities in collaboration, to house the zoo animals, and increase revenues jointly.

For the remainder of their time in Budapest, they would have collections after shows to raise money aside from ticket revenue, and work towards hosting an event to bolster funds and increase their profile. A party held in a few weeks' time. With dancing, dinner, performances, drinks, and perhaps a raffle or auction to raise funds.

It all seemed very promising. The future was bright. And more importantly, the future was budgeted.

Everyone seemed enlivened, engaged and willing. It was a nice feeling.

Trowa and Duo hung around as the others filed out, and stepped down across the benches until they were stood on the edge of the ring, watching Cathy and Bobby pack away their paraphernalia.

“You could sell sand in the desert if you keep pitching like that,” Trowa said, mildly, with a smile. Cathy finished zipping up the portfolio with the charts in, slipping the strap over her shoulder as Bobby disassembled the stand.

“Let’s hope,” she said, moving across to stand by them. “It sounded good, then?”

“It was great!” Duo enthused.

“Quatre really helped,” she admitted. “He’s a very good teacher.”

She glanced sideways at Trowa, and he could see Duo turning to look at him too. He pointedly looked over their shoulders, to watch Bobby heading out of the ring.

“You can’t avoid him forever, you know,” Duo said.

“I’m fairly certain I can,” Trowa told him blithely.

“No, you can’t,” Cathy said, with a grin that was far too smug for Trowa’s liking. “He’s volunteered to host the fundraiser at the hotel, and provide the catering.”

“I thought you were thinking of hosting it here?” he said, and was annoyed that Cathy looked satisfied at his surprise.

“Originally,” she granted. “But he pointed out that this place isn’t ideally set up for hosting that style of event - we haven’t got a space that could fit everyone in, aside from the ring, and we couldn’t set tables up in here. Plus, we could sell more tickets by marketing it as a fancy event at a high end hotel.”

“A fancy hotel shindig could be fun,” Duo purred, watching Trowa carefully, even though he was keeping his expression carefully blank. “A little drink, a little dance…”

“Just tell us what happened,” Cathy said, hands on hips, and exasperated. “Did you go for a kiss and stick your tongue in his ear?”

“We won’t judge you, man. We know you ain’t got any moves.”

“Nothing happened,” Trowa said calmly. “Nothing is going to happen.”

Hands shoved casually in his pockets, he hopped over the last bench and headed out of the door.

A fundraiser at Quatre’s hotel. Marvellous. Just what he needed. Maybe he could just hide at the back and keep himself busy. The last thing that either of them wanted was for Quatre to have to put up with his great big mess of emotions - and thinking of that just made him feel a little sick again.

No. Nope. Stop it. Move on.

Concentrate on getting the money for the circus. That was something definitive to work towards. He could do that.

  
  


*

  
  


“I saw Q for lunch today,” Duo said, casually, perched on a table and watching as Trowa worked beside him bagging up the change from the collection buckets after the last show.

Trowa continued carefully sorting coins into piles, counting them out, bagging them up to go to the bank. The collections had taken place at every show, someone stood with a bucket at every door. Then the cash had to be sorted, taken to the bank. There was usually a small sheaf of notes, but mostly coins, people fishing into pockets as they left on a high after a good show.

And someone had to organise them, in the back room, out of the way.

It was quite soothing in its own way. And satisfying, to tally up the donations, see the bank line increase a little each day.

“Tro?” Duo prompted.

“I didn’t realise you needed commentary,” Trowa said mildly. “My mistake. Did you have a nice lunch?”

“Quatre said he’s not heard from you in two weeks, man.” Duo nudged Trowa’s leg gently with his boot. “C’mon, man, this is dumb. We should all be havin’ fun together, and then you two should be gettin’ freaky.”

“That sounds nice,” Trowa said, refusing to acknowledge anything that Duo was saying. “And what did you order?”

He got an irritated grunt in response.

“Well, y’know, we just had sandwiches, but we decided to skip dessert and just had wild sex right there on the table while we waited for the bill. It was great, an’ all, but I wish he’d held off from shoutin’ your name, ‘cause that made things a little awkward…”

Pressing his lips together in a firm line, Trowa sat back in his chair and stopped totalling the money, fingers tightening around the coin in his hand. He took a deep breath through his nose, counted to ten in his head, then counted back down again for good measure before finally looking up at Duo. His friend was looking down at him, eyebrows raised expectantly, expression surprisingly free from any sign of a leer - more of a challenge, if anything.

Trowa spread his hands, palms up in question, wrists still resting on the table, and raised his own eyebrows slightly in askance.

“Dude,” was all he said, a mild chide.

“Well it’s gonna happen sooner or later if you don’t make a move,” Duo told him. “Not with me, but he’s not gonna stay single for long.”

“That’s none of my business,” Trowa said. “He can do whatever he wants, with whoever he wants – even you. I don’t have any claim on him just because I like him.”

Duo let out a strangled noise of frustration, and looked like he was seriously considering shoving Trowa off his chair.

“He wants  _ you _ , you utter –“

“How’s the counting going?” Cathy called cheerfully, shouldering her way into the room. “I brought refreshments!”

She was fishing in a carrier bag as she spoke, so missed the thoroughly dirty look Duo shot at Trowa. The refreshments were cool sodas and ice creams, and these were divvied out quickly enough. Unwrapping her own, chocolate-covered confection, she studied the progress and looked pleased, whilst Duo and Trowa accepted their treats with some delight.

“I’ll get it all bagged up and into the safe in the next hour or so,” Trowa told her, catching the drips of juice from his popsicle with his tongue. “I can stay late to get the takings from tonight done, that way it can all go to the bank tomorrow.”

“Don’t forget to take the ticket money for the fundraiser,” she reminded him. “There’s a decent chunk in there now.”

“How many have you sold?” Duo asked.

“We’ve got the 15 pairs of tickets we’ve set aside for prize draws in shows the week before,” Cathy said, “but I think we’ve sold about 150 so far? And we’re looking like we’ll sell at least the same again…”

Duo let out a low whistle, impressed.

“What’s that work out to? In total?”

“At sixty a ticket? About eighteen thou, all told.”

Trowa choked on the mouthful of soda he had taken.

“ _ How _ much per ticket?” he coughed.

“I thought it was expensive too,” Cathy allowed, looking thoughtful. “But Quatre said that, for it being a catered event, at a WEI hotel, with entertainment provided and a dress code, that was actually pretty cheap. From what I gather, some guests at the hotel are looking at it as a low-budget bit of fun, while our usual crowd is thinking that it’s an expensive but not unreasonable treat.”

“A dress code? I don't have anything suitable for a dress code, Cathy,” Trowa protested. “Neither does Duo.”

“Excuse you, I always dress to impress, unlike you Mr Turtleneck-Jeans-Up-to-My-Nipples.”

“That doesn't matter, we’ll all be there in costume,” Cathy said flatly. “Since we're the entertainment - which you would  _ know _ if you weren't so busy hiding from your little blonde sugar daddy to engage with the planning!”

“Fuck off,” Trowa snapped, reflexively reacting to the jibe, then immediately regretted it when he remembered he was speaking to Cathy  _ not _ Duo.

“ _ Excuse _ me?” Cathy said dangerously, whilst Duo snickered darkly into his ice cream.

“Sorry,” he said hastily. “It’s usually Duo saying shit like that.”

“You need to get over yourself,” Catherine advised, flatly. “He’s a good kid, and he doesn’t seem like the type to care if you flubbed it one time. You’re embarrassed, so what? Don’t screw this up because of something dumb like that. I don’t know what you did to get someone like him interested in you, but I can promise you Trowa Barton, you won’t find anyone else like him in a hurry.”

After that, she performed a metaphorical mic drop, and whirled out of the room like a small, huffy tornado.

Trowa was going to have to watch out for close-calls during the act this evening, and tried not to think about how near to home her comments had hit. Uncomfortably near.

On the table, Duo let out a gusty, satisfied chuckle.

“I love your sister.”

“She’s out of your league."

“Damn straight,” Duo agreed with a snort, before nudging Trowa’s leg with his foot again. “Come on, man. What happened? I know it’s been a while, but you seemed to know what you were doin’ when we had a stab at it. You can’t have forgotten how it all worked.”

Sighing, Trowa leaned forwards in his chair again, resuming his sorting, organising the coins into piles and bagging them. It  was an excuse not to look at Duo, as much as anything, but it needed doing anyway. It did.

“...He told me that he felt everything,” Trowa said, finally.

“...Yeah?”

“ _ Everything _ .”

“...He’s an empath?” Duo said. “We knew that. And…?”

There was no immediate answer forthcoming, but Trowa could feel the gaze on the top of his head, and then Duo started laughing.

“Oh my god,” Duo cackled. “You’re hidin’ because you realised Quat could feel your emotional boner?  _ Jesus _ .”

“Oh fuck off,” Trowa muttered, focus intense on the money in front of him.

“Don’t talk to me like that, I’ll tell Cathy on you.”

“You are a bad person,” Trowa told him, “and you should feel bad.”

“At least I’m getting laid, instead of cockblocking myself with  _ feelings _ ! Jesus.”

“Fuck you.”

 

*

  
  


Attending a fancy party in costume had worked out all very well for Duo, since the tumblers’ back up costume that they’d had cleaned for the event meant that Duo looked like he was wearing fitted black slacks, a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a black waistcoat.

Trowa had been given the choice of his clown costume or his lion-work costume.

Deciding he didn’t want to be shirtless at the party, the choice had been obvious.

“You look super sexy,” Duo told him, casually, winking as a couple of women in cocktail dresses passed them and admired the form-fitting outfit. “You’re definitely going to pull tonight, tiger.”

“I will block every chance you get if you keep being a shithead,” Trowa replied, trying to decide whether downing the glass of champagne he had been given would be a good plan for the evening.

“Noted.”

They’d had just about an hour after the evening show to shower off the sweat from the last performance and change into their freshly washed costumes, before all piling onto the Metro to get to the hotel.

They had got a few looks for certain. And quite a few photographs would be spiralling around social media, he had no doubt. Why they couldn’t have changed once they got here, he didn’t know.

Mostly he just wanted to leave.

The event room that had been set up was very impressive, he could admit that much. Bright material had been strung from the center of the ceiling, draping to the tops of the walls, then falling down them to give the impression of a circus tent. Strings of lights had been woven between, like stars.

A large bar was against one wall, a staffed hot buffet against another, and tables were arranged around a circular stage in the centre of the room - the ring. Where, in the beam of a rather impressive arrangement of spotlights, Fiamma was currently displaying her excellent contortion skills to a gentle murmur of ooohs and aaahhs.

All the people who had bought tickets were dressed to the nines - suits, tuxes, cocktail dresses and sparkles. The troupe stood out like beacons in the midst of it, to the delight of the huge swathes of people who had evidently thought this would be a good way to spend their cash. People clustered around for photographs, conversations, brief juggling lessons. Cameras were everywhere.

This was definitely going to go viral.

And, given as Trowa had spotted a number of people with lanyards saying ‘press’ and very large cameras, that was evidently the intention.

The champagne seemed at once more and less appealing.

“I can’t see Q anywhere,” Duo said, craning his neck to peer through the crowds.

“Good,” Trowa muttered. Maybe he could make it through the evening without making a fool of himself.

There was a round of applause as Fiamma bowed with a flourish, and Duo necked the dregs of his champagne, setting the empty glass on the tall table beside them.

“I’m up! Don’t do anything dumb while I’m gone!”

“Your definition of dumb is different from everyone else’s,” Trowa observed, but Duo was already out of earshot, slipping lithely between the crowd to vault onto the stage at the same time as Ana, Alexei and Sasha, each leaping from a different side to meet in the middle to delighted applause.

Trowa sipped at his champagne and repressed a sigh. Maybe he could sneak out after his set with Cathy.

Hope springs eternal, he thought wryly.

  
  


*

  
  


He hadn’t managed to sneak away. In fact, shortly after Duo left, Trowa had been accosted by numerous guests wanting photographs, and he had been whirled from person to person throughout the event. This evening, he was a commodity to earn for the circus. He could manage that, when he thought about it that way.

It was just another task to complete, another role to play.

The act went well, smooth and slick, to much dramatic gasping from the audience, and then he was almost free.

There couldn’t be too much longer left, and he’d managed to get away without seeing Quatre at all. He had seen a few Maguanacs, circulating amongst the crowd, so presumably he was nearby, but so far he had kept himself free and clear.

So, when the music cut off and Cathy reappeared on the stage, with a microphone, accompanied by the aforementioned blonde, carrying two plastic buckets, Trowa was caught a little by surprise.

The tux he was wearing had obviously been tailored for him, and fit him like a glove. He looked calm, cool, collected and happy as Cathy made her speech, but Trowa didn’t hear a word of it, instead fading backwards through the crowd to hide by the nearest door. His eyes were fixed on Quatre - like a magnet, he couldn’t help it, drinking it in and trying to absorb as much as possible whilst trying to get away as soon as he could.

Duo was waiting for him.

“Don’t worry,” the braided man said happily, pulling a strip of yellow raffle tickets out of his sleeve. “I bought you a strip. And Cathy did too. And, some of the others I think.”

“What?” Trowa asked blankly, but Duo just shushed him, and pointed to the stage.

“So,” Cathy continued, “We’ve had a few people going around with raffle tickets to buy this evening. The pink tickets put you in the running for a variety of prizes - juggling lessons, a visit with the animals, right down to a bottle of scotch - but the yellow tickets have our star prize. If your number is called from one of our yellow tickets, you will get an evening, all expenses paid, in the company of our generous host, Quatre Winner.”

There was a lot of excited muttering. Several women around them started fishing tickets out of clutch bags and bras, either for themselves or their younger daughters beside them. Duo waved the strip of tickets he’d bought at Trowa, and all the blood left his brain in panic.

“No,” Trowa hissed. “ _ No _ .”

Duo ignored him.

The pink tickets were called out - drawn from the bucket in Quatre’s left hand, numbers first, then names written on the back. Winners were waved over to the stage, to give their details to Mr Roberts, collect their prize - whether physical or a voucher for one of the experiences. Each ticket brought the next draw closer. Duo had blocked the door, so Trowa couldn’t slip out.

He could just watch, frozen, until the bucket of pink tickets was discarded, and a drumroll started playing over the sound system as the remaining bucket was held out to Cathy.

His hands clenched reflexively as she reached in, nails digging into his palms as she fished out a ticket.

“Number 351,” she called, “Trowa Barton!”

There was a round of congratulatory cheering, and Trowa shoved his way past Duo and out of the door.

Duo caught up to him a handful of minutes later, two corridors down, leaning heavily against the wall and staring at his feet.

“Dude, what the hell?” the braided man demanded, and then paused. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Trowa said tightly. “I think… I think I’m having a panic attack.”

Something felt like it was choking him. He was struggling to breathe - he ripped his mask off and threw it on the floor, but that didn’t help. The air was too hot, too thick, with too little oxygen. There was something solid and heavy in his chest, constricting his lungs painfully, and his stomach was clenching sharply.

Firm hands were on his shoulders, gently turning him around and coaxing him to sit on the floor, back to the wall, and head between his knees. A warm palm rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades, until his muscles unknotted, and he felt like he was able to take deeper breaths - each inhale fuller, relaxing him a little more.

“You’re alright,” Duo murmured, and Trowa realised he’d been doing that the whole time, only now the roaring in his ears had subsided he could hear it. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

“...Sorry,” he muttered after a long pause, when he was able to sit a little straighter. Duo rocked back on his heels and studied him carefully.

“‘S alright,” he said, “but you wanna tell me what that was about? I’ve never see you get like that.”

“...Quatre makes me panic,” Trowa admitted.

“I’ve seen you do all kinds of shit without blinking,” Duo told him, “but  _ Quatre _ makes you panic?”

When he put it like that, it seemed so ridiculous.

“Those things weren’t about me,” Trowa said slowly, trying to explain, to put his thoughts in order, articulate feelings that had been with him forever but had been growing steadily more overwhelming. “I was doing them, but they were something that needed to be done, anyone could have done them. With Quatre… It would be just about me, and I don’t think there is much of a me there. I’m scared that there’s not enough for him, and I’m going to let him down.” He rested his forehead on his knees and sighed shakily. “I’ve never wanted anything this much, and I’m terrified that I’m not going to be able to handle it.”

Shifting his weight with a grunt, Duo sat next to him, leaning back against the wall, head tilted back to rest against the wallpaper.

“It’s just a date, man,” Duo said, with a sigh. “You’re not gettin’ married or anything.”

“But with him it’s  _ not _ just a date,” Trowa argued. “It’s… there’s a lot built up behind this, because when I thought it was impossible I didn’t worry about realism, and now there’s this  _ pressure _ , to be good enough, to be anything more than this… empty, anonymous thing.”

“Just be yourself. He likes you.”

“I don’t even know who that is. You’ve heard Cathy - it’s only since you got here I’ve been doing anything other than going through the motions.” It was a morose thought, one that had been lurking in the back of his mind all his life - No Name, then someone else’s name. He was whatever people needed him to be, and no-one had ever needed him to be just himself. “Back during the war, he made me feel calm. Peaceful. I liked that. But now I don’t know what he makes me feel, it’s all messed up. I’m messed up.”

“We’re all messed up,” Duo said. “Look at me, I’m a fuckin’ wreck. You don’t know who you are? I know you. You’re a shitty clown with an awful sense of humour, and you fight dirty, and you like crap music. That’s you.”

Trowa managed to let out a little huff of laughter at that, and Duo rocked sideways to bump his shoulder against him, giving him a lopsided smile.

“I bet you can get to the point where he makes you feel peaceful again,” Duo reassured him. “But you can’t do that if you keep avoiding him.”

“...I don’t like you when you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

“Then obviously I never like you.”

They helped each other to their feet, and dusted themselves off. Trowa thumped Duo’s shoulder in thanks, Duo elbowed him in the ribs to say he was welcome.

 

Yeah. They were all messed up.

  
*


	13. Cultivini

“I don’t want to do this,” Trowa said, for the seventeenth time that hour, and he was probably well into the hundreds of times he had said it that day alone.

‘This’ being the date with Quatre, his prize for a raffle he hadn’t entered.

“Tough,” Duo told him, from where he was slouched in the chair by the window, idly watching the wallabies in the enclosure on the other side, and mutilating empty cans with his pocket knife and a pair of pliers. “I’m not lettin’ you back out. You shouldn’t have been lettin’ it get to the point where it was makin’ you wig out like you did the other night. Q’s right, we gotta get our shit together. And that involves facin’ up to our issues and dealin’ with ‘em. You helped me with my shit, now I’m helpin’ you with yours.”

“You’re still full of shit.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“And that’s why you’ve been hiding in here for the last two days,” Trowa said dryly. “Because you’re not avoiding the chance of bumping into Wufei.”

“Shut up, that’s different.”

Honestly, it was, and Trowa knew it, but he didn’t really care. The rhythm of the sniping was taking his mind off the fact that Quatre was due to arrive imminently, and he was dressed in jeans and a button down, because that was basically all he had, and he already knew he was going to be underdressed for the occasion, but…

“I’d love to hear how,” he needled, before his thoughts could get too off track. He had already finished absent-mindedly rearranging the mugs in the kitchenette, and was now poking around the cutlery draw. Nervous energy was making him twitchy, and he was trying to ignore the way his stomach was roiling.

Duo watched him with a considering glare, before huffing out a sigh and indulging him, clearly picking up on what was needed. He placed his mangled can down on the table, next to the others already there, and grabbed another to start destroying.

“You know Q likes you,” Duo said, “which is why you’re panickin’. Wufei… hasn’t been seen since Christmas,  _ I _ haven’t spoken to him since before that… An’ I’m still pissed at him anyway.”

“Are you?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“I don’t wanna muss up your hair before Quat gets here.”

Before Trowa could respond, there was a knock at the door, and Duo snorted.

“Speak of the devil,” he muttered. “I’mma try ‘Beetlejuice’ next. Are you plannin’ on letting him in, or are you just gonna stare at the door?”

Staring at the door seemed a remarkably appealing course of action, if the sudden increase in Trowa’s heart rate was anything to go by. Despite that, he managed to force himself to open it, kept the panic from showing on his face, as it swung open and Quatre smiled brightly at him from the other side.

He was in a suit, Trowa clocked quickly, and was suddenly very intensely aware of his own jeans. A dark blue suit, with brown brogues, but his jacket was unbuttoned and his hands were in his pockets. No tie, and a shirt with thick red and white stripes, collar unbuttoned. Mid level smart, Trowa decided, assessing the formality level implied at the back of his mind, smart but relaxed.

The front of his mind was busy trying to remember how to form words - Quatre looked amazing. Evidently wherever he was getting his suits knew exactly how to dress someone, all the lines sitting perfectly, lengthening where needed, accentuating elsewhere.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” he blurted, even as he stepped aside to let Quatre in. “It’s just me, you don’t have to bother.”

“Most people start with ‘hello’,” Quatre said, looking amused.

“Seriously, though,” Trowa said. “We could just leave it.”

“No you couldn’t,” Duo called. “I’ve got big plans to lounge around the place naked, and if you’re here, you’ll just pull that face that spoils the mood - that’s the one!” He pointed his knife at Trowa and grinned, watching as he hastily tried to wipe the expression from his face.

“I suppose with that incentive, we  _ have _ to go,” Quatre said, with a chuckle. “Besides, I’ve already made a reservation. Just think of it as a free dinner - or I might start to think you’re trying to avoid me?”

“Uh-”

“Duo, did you make these? They’re amazing!”

Duo looked up from the can he was disfiguring to see what Quatre was looking at.

“Oh, yeah. They’re just a bit of dumb fun.”

The blonde was holding one of the former cans that Duo had set on the coffee table, carefully avoiding the sharp edges and corners. Cut and folded, the can had been transformed from beer receptacle into a little giraffe, spindly legs and long neck made out of wrapped metal. Trowa came to have a closer look, and saw that all of the cans he had assumed Duo was just destroying were little creatures - a menagerie of beer can animals sat on the tabletop.

“They’re wonderful!” Quatre told him, setting the giraffe down beside a frog. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

Duo shrugged a shoulder, looked a little awkward.

“When I was a little kid, there was this guy who used to make ‘em for us, with his empties, since we didn’t have any toys or anythin’,” he muttered. “They weren’t great - we got cut quite a bit, but… y’know, the idea was nice. Nothin’ special.”

“I think they’re special,” Quatre said.

“You clearly don’t get out much,” Duo said, catching Trowa’s eye over Quatre’s shoulder. “Tro, sort it out, take him outside so he can see nice things instead of spendin’ his evening looking at a load of mutilated beer cans.”

He knew a cue when he saw it. However reluctant he was to leave, Trowa could see Duo wanted out of the conversation, ideally ten minutes ago. So he swallowed the lump in his throat, and brushed his hand against Quatre’s elbow, inclining his head towards the door. The expression on the blonde’s face as he turned towards him was warm, and delighted, and terrifying as it was heart-stopping.

The things he did for pride. The things he did for friendship.

  
  


*

  
  


Trowa had braced himself for a fancy restaurant, with outlandish menus and overpriced drinks, and a policy against jeans.

So he was a little surprised when they arrived at a small, brightly lit store, with a couple of small tables towards the back, one wall entirely covered in a huge shelf of wine, and the rest of the space filled with wine bottles in strange glass tanks. A pair of young women were sitting either side of a counter at the front of the room, with an open bottle of wine and two wine glasses between them, dressed just as if they were two friends having a casual drink.

They greeted Quatre with a bright smile, and handed him a small plastic card, like a credit card, and a tablet, leaving him to take Trowa to the back of the shop and claim a table, snagging some empty wine glasses from the shelves nearby.

“What is this?” Trowa asked, glancing around as Quatre slid in opposite him, handing him a glass.

“Wine tasting!” he said cheerfully. “All the bottles are kept in climate controlled cases, so they are served at the exact right temperature, and they’re sealed, so opened bottles don’t go off. So there’s a huge selection available at any time, without any being wasted.”

One of the girls disappeared into the back of the shop, and reappeared with a massive platter of cheeses, hams, and breads, and a plate for each of them, before leaving them to their own devices. Quatre handed Trowa the tablet and grinned.

“Here,” he said. “It’s the wine selection - pick what you want, take the card, and go fill up your glass.”

Trowa couldn’t decide whether this was worse than a fancy restaurant. It was casual, it was well lit, and the staff seemed fairly inclined to leave them to their own devices, so things would be judgement-free, but…

“I don’t know anything about wine.”

“You don’t have to, it’s just some fun, finding out which flavours you’ll like.”

“...What if it all tastes the same?”

A challenge sparkled in Quatre’s eyes then, and his grin turned into a smirk.

“You think so? I bet I can change your mind.”

Resigned, Trowa spread his hands, and let Quatre pull him to his feet, again, snagging the glasses as he instructed Trowa to grab the tablet. He was towed, determinedly, over to the wall where a row of white wines was set up. A glass was set under the nozzle, and filled a third of the way, before it was thrust before Trowa triumphantly.

“I don’t know why you’re looking so smug,” he said dryly, taking the glass, and watching Quatre turn to fill his own. “You’ve not won yet.”

The blonde just raised his wine in a toast, and silently took a sip, waiting for Trowa to follow suit. After a second, he did so, dubious.

The wine was cool, and surprisingly smooth - he had often found whites acidic, tangy, and sharp at the back of his throat. But what surprised him most was the flavour - earthy, it tasted strongly of minerals, with pangs of sulphur, and a little...salt, perhaps?

It was unlike anything he had ever had before, and he knew it showed on his face, because Quatre’s grin grew impossibly wider.

“Mineral wines,” Quatre told him, looking extremely satisfied with himself, as Trowa took another, more confident, mouthful. “From Somlo, which has lots of rich volcanic soil. It gives the grapes this amazing flavour.”

“Okay,” Trowa said, feeling an answering grin tug at his lips, as he finished off the last of it. “Bet you can’t do it again.”

Jutting his chin out in determination, Quatre took his glass again, moved further down the row, and filled it up with another third of another white, passing it back. Trowa maintained eye contact as he took a sip, watching the expression on the blonde’s face as he rolled the taste around his tongue. This one was sweet  -  _ really _ sweet, almost sickly, but still smooth and cool.

“ _ Tokaji _ ,” Quatre said, knowing he had won this one too. “Strictly speaking it’s a dessert wine, so you shouldn’t be having it first, but it’s a good contrast. That’s the sweetest one, but they grade it so if it’s too much, we can probably find one that’s a bit sharper you might prefer.”

Dessert wine was right, Trowa thought, and he knocked the rest of it back in one gulp, trying to ignore the sweetness, and he held his glass out to Quatre again with a raised eyebrow.

“Three out of five?” he goaded.

 

*

 

The thing about having wine served in third-of-a-glass increments was that it was very easy to drink several glasses very quickly without realising it, as the measures seemed so small, but it was forty minutes later when Trowa started to feel the warmth creeping up from his stomach, curling around his head. Increased resistance to narcotics was one thing, but necking wine non-stop on an empty stomach would certainly go a long way to counteract that.

“I don’t think I’m doing this right,” he told Quatre. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be swallowing this much wine at a wine tasting.”

“Are you having fun?” Quatre asked, taking his glass again to refill.

“I -” He paused, surprised. He was feeling mellow, relaxed, and had been laughing pretty steadily for the past half hour. “Yes.”

“Then you’re doing it right.”

The blonde handed him back a full glass this time - an  _ Egri Bikavér _ , from the same vineyard Quatre had shares in - and gestured back to the table, where the cheese and meat platter lay forgotten.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Winner?” he said, sliding into his seat and starting to pick some food to begin to soak up the alcohol.

“Yes,” Quatre said blithely.

Trowa froze, and looked up. Quatre was leaning back in his seat - comfortable, confident, relaxed - swirling his wine idly in his glass, and watching Trowa with a thoughtful, pleased smile.

“Well,” he clarified, after a pause, “not messy drunk, but relaxed enough so we can talk without you running away.”

“I didn’t buy the raffle tickets,” Trowa said hastily, in case Quatre was worried he had taken advantage of a situation. “It was Duo. Or Cathy. Or possibly Giselle.”

“Actually, I think the winning ticket was from the strip I had Rashid buy in your name,” Quatre told him, setting his glass down on the table with a precise ‘click’, and leaning forwards to rest his elbow on the table, his chin on his hand. “But it could had been from any of the Maguanacs - they all bought a strip for you. I’ll bet half the tickets in that bucket had your name on the back.”

This seemed like a set-up, and Trowa found himself suddenly on full alert, glancing warily around the shop for any kind of Maguanac interference.

All he saw was the two women, talking quietly over their wine at the front of the shop.

“They’re not here,” Quatre said, looking a little amused. “It’s just you and me.”

“...Why?”

“Because you’ve been avoiding me. I’m not an idiot. I wanted to give you your space, but then it went on for so long… and I knew you’d panic if I cornered you unexpectedly.” He shrugged, took a sip of wine.

Unconsciously, Trowa found himself mirroring him, for lack of anything better to do with his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I understand if I’ve made you uncomfortable, I’ve tried my best but…”

Quatre let out a startled laugh.

“You are remarkably dense,” the blonde observed.

“What?”

“I’ve been trying to seduce you since you got here,” Quatre told him, ruefully, helping himself to some cheese and bread. “Evidently, I’m not very good at it, since every time I got close you started to panic.”

Trowa stared at him, as he cheerfully spread chutney on top of his cheese and bread, taking another large mouthful of wine, letting the warmth curl through him. Forcibly trying to stop his mind spiralling into a panic - the whole point of this exercise was to get over this ridiculous fear, to stop retreating at the prospect of being emotionally vulnerable.

“When we met at the baths… you seemed so much more open to me,” he continued, pausing to take a bite. “Like you were no longer trying to mute out everything you felt. It was wonderful. And, it seemed like you felt the same way about me as I felt about you. But then, every time I tried to make a move…” He gestured with the hand holding his bread, covering multiple sins in a gentle flick of the wrist.

“I’m… sorry?” Trowa offered, just about managing to take the words in, to hear them over the sound of his pounding heartbeat. He was starting to feel much warmer than the wine would justify.

“You don’t need to be sorry, Trowa,” Quatre said earnestly. “I just… I wanted to be upfront, and clear with you, so you knew what the score was. I care for you - a lot, very deeply. And, I am confident enough that you feel the same about me. But for some reason, the idea of… love,” he paused, studying Trowa, and suddenly Trowa realised he was reading the spike of panic, the cold stab of fear that shot through him at the word. “Love,” Quatre repeated, gently, “scares you. I don’t want to rush you, or press you. But I would like to be with you. In your own time, however makes you comfortable.”

Trowa’s chest felt tight, almost like it had when he had his panic attack at the party, but less frantic. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, processing the words in his head slowly, carefully, rather than letting them slam against the shields in his mind that fear instinctively threw up at any mention of this. He studied them, much as he had used to do with his emotions. And he tried to find the words to explain himself, even as his throat was trying to seize up, stop him saying anything stupid.

“I… have never had to just be myself before,” he said slowly. “I have always had a function, or a task, or a mission. It has never just been about  _ me _ . But you look at me, and… you are looking at  _ me _ . And I’m not sure there’s enough there for you.”

“You are plenty,” Quatre reassured him.

“But I’m not!” Trowa insisted, desperate to make him see, understand. “Not compared to you - who you are, what you do, what you have… My  _ name _ isn’t even mine.”

“I’m not WEI,” Quatre said. “I’m not my family’s fortune. All of those exist around me, existed before me, and I just slot into place. I use them, drive them - pilot them, like I piloted Sandrock. But the links to them aren’t the entirety of me, like Sandrock wasn’t.”

“It’s not-”

“It’s exactly the same,” Quatre said firmly. “I’m here because I was trained to do it, because I think it’s  _ right _ for me to use what resources I have to make the world better. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t someone else who could do it, who has trained just as hard, who could take control just as easily. And it doesn’t mean I can’t have wants, needs, desires outside of that.”

He reached across the table, gently, carefully, brushed his fingers against the skin on Trowa’s wrist. They were warm, sent tingles all the way up his arm. Tingles he tried to ignore - getting dragged into this was a bad idea. He would only let Quatre down, it would be inevitable. He could get the job done when there was a job to be done, but when the task was just being himself...

“You’re not incompatible with my life. You’ve always seen exactly me, and until now, you never let my background scare you off. Until now, you didn’t see it as a problem.”

“Until now, I wasn’t having to measure up to it.”

Quatre sat back in his seat again, looked thoughtfully to the ceiling, and took a sip of wine. The silence stretched, for a long moment, and all at once Trowa was hopeful and terrified that maybe he had won - or lost. Whatever it would count as.

“Before the war, you were a Merc, right?” Quatre said, a non-sequitur, but if it moved the conversation onwards, Trowa would take it.

“Yeah. I was a mechanic just before Meteor, but before that… a Merc as far back as I can remember.”

A nod, understanding, processing the information.

“I don’t really have any friends from before the war,” Quatre told him. “Not civilian friends. You’d think I would, wouldn’t you? I have contacts still, children of other businessmen or politicians, who I was made to have playdates with for purposes that suited my father. But they’re not people I choose to associate with, to spend time with.”

“I expect their experiences are a little different from yours,” Trowa offered, getting a sage nod and a smile in return.

“There are some people though, who I keep close by. I enjoy their company, I trust them. I feel settled around them, and like they understand me.”

Realisation was starting to dawn, as Trowa was steered towards the point Quatre was trying to make. He felt a wry smile twist his lips and he looked down at his glass.

“The Maguanacs,” he supplied, since the blonde was evidently waiting for him to answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other boy’s grin widen.

“And they are…?” he wheedled, teasing.

“Yes, I get the point.”

“I mean, strictly speaking, they’re space pirates not mercs,” Quatre said cheerfully, popping some more cheese in his mouth. “And Rashid will be very cross if I don’t fully emphasise that is  _ former _ .”

“You’re an extremely good negotiator, Mr Winner,” Trowa told him, lifting his glass in a salute. “I can see why they pay you the big bucks.”

“I’m very target-driven,” Quatre agreed. “I know what I want, and I set a plan to get there.”

“SMART goals,” Trowa said.

“Exactly.” The blonde leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the table, and his tone dropped, something confidential and intimate. His gaze met Trowa’s, heat and determination in those bright blue eyes, and his mouth curled in the most heated grin he had ever seen on that face. “I want to kiss you. When you’re ready, and comfortable, and feel like you can. I want that more than anything.”

“...I suppose that counts as SMART,” Trowa said, hoarsely, when he could make his tongue work again.

“You bet your bippy it does,” Quatre quipped, snagging his empty glass to go and rinse it out. “But for now, I just want to have fun, getting gently drunk with you, and relaxing. How does that sound?”

It sounded… pretty perfect, actually.

  
  


*

 

“Really, I should be walking you back to your door,” Quatre said, with a disgruntled frown, as they hopped off the Metro and mounted the stairs to street level. “Since I took you out.”

“Yes, but then Rashid would murder me,” Trowa said patiently, following him into the yellow glow of the street lights, watching as the pale hair turned gold-orange.

Sighing irritably, Quatre then whirled on the spot to face him, holding out his hand and looking questioning.

“May I?”

“May you what?” Trowa asked, before his brain could catch up. “ _ Oh _ . Um.”

Clamping down violently on his instinctive desire to run from the vulnerability this presented, he hesitantly held his hand out towards the blonde, and watched, almost fascinated, as their fingers linked together, palms pressing against each other.

Mercs hadn’t ever been the hand-holding type. And none of his more intimate experiences had really called for it.

“Is this okay?”

“I think so?” It was nice. Warm, feeling Quatre’s callouses against his skin - less rough than his, his hands kept worn with circus work. The grip shifted and sent pleasant tingles up his arm, which curled through his chest and stomach.

“If it stops being okay, let me know,” Quatre said, as they began to walk towards the hotel. “I’ll probably pick it up, especially since we’re touching, but… just in case.”

“Especially because we’re touching?”

“There’s less… interference, when I touch someone,” Quatre tried to explain, his brain as fuzzy as Trowa’s - they had drunk a  _ lot _ of wine. They were not good at wine tasting. But they were solid A+ wine drinkers. “Like the difference between wireless connection and one with cables.”

“I will… try not to feel anything weird while we’re touching,” Trowa promised.

“Thank you. You’re a real gentleman, walking me to my door too.”

They drew up outside, and Trowa suddenly felt awkward all over again, nervous, uncertain.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Quatre said quickly, soothing, releasing his hand and smiling up at him. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just… There’re  _ expectations _ . And I’m not entirely sure what they are. But I think I’m getting them wrong.”

“You’re not.”

It was the first time he had really allowed himself to study Quatre’s face since they had met again. To study the lines, the firming of his jaw, the brush of hair against his forehead, the curve of his lips, and that wonderful, terrifying expression in his eyes. It was like staring into the sun, and it made his heart ache, and took his breath away in all the best ways.

He had never considered that it would feel like this.

He was drowning in it.

“I don’t know what to do.”

He wasn’t even conscious of saying the words, and he was too distracted by the way Quatre’s eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled, with the little dimple that appeared in his cheek, to question it.

“We’re only seventeen,” Quatre said, his voice just as quiet. “We’re too young to promise ‘forever’ - and given our lives, it seems shortsighted. But I want to see where this goes, and what this could be. Let’s just… do what feels natural? And work from there.”

“Okay,” Trowa said.

“Good night, Trowa. Thank you for coming out with me tonight, I had fun.”

“Me too.”

Quatre was halfway through the door, before he paused, turned back and gave Trowa the sauciest look he had ever seen.

“Maybe next time you can come up for coffee.”

And then he was gone, into the foyer with a wicked chuckle.

And Trowa couldn’t stop smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- If you ever make it to Budapest, and are so inclined, I can't recommend Cultivini enough. The staff there know their stuff, the wine selection is huge, and it supports Hungarian vineyards. The Hungarian wine industry is usual - during the Austro-Hungarian Empire, they had a booming wine culture, but following the Second World War, during the Soviet Occupation, they mostly exported mass produced very cheap red wine, which if you speak to anyone who was at Uni in the UK in the 70s, they remember with a grimace.
> 
> Since then, the industry has grown and flourished and honestly Hungarian wine is some of the best wine I have ever had, and in Hungary itself it's actually fairly cheap. But it's barely exported because there is presently no demand, as a result of the culture of production during the occupation.
> 
> So, yes. Cultivini is amazing: http://www.cultivini.com
> 
>  
> 
> \- SMART goals - Specific Measurable Achievable Realistic and Timely
> 
> \- the first time I heard "you bet your bippy" was on Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, and it still makes me laugh. I think it would probably make Quatre laugh too.


	14. Dózsa György út

The text had arrived that morning, notifying them Wufei was due into town later that day.

Quatre had contacted Trowa, saying that he had ‘convinced’ Wufei to have dinner with him – if he wanted to join them, then that could save Duo having to bump into him unexpectedly. It was a solid plan.

If only Wufei had been aware of it. Or possibly, he had been, but was trying his level best to avoid having to socialise more than absolutely necessary.

After the show, Duo remained hidden backstage, waiting until he was absolutely certain the building had been cleared and Wufei wasn’t lurking in the foyer to leap on him. Trowa pointed out that he was confusing Wufei with the boogeyman, and Duo had said something very rude, and not very witty in response.

So Trowa had headed back to the apartment alone, and found Wufei lurking in the hallway.

Perhaps Duo deserved more credit than Trowa had previously realised.

The other pilot was stood straight, leaning back against the wall, eyes closed as though meditating, arms folded. He was in full uniform, a small suitcase at his feet – he must have come straight from the airport. Either that, or he was planning to make a quick escape to avoid having to spend the evening with Quatre. From what Quatre had said, that wouldn’t be out of character.

Wufei didn’t move while Trowa walked down the hall, only acknowledging his presence by opening his eyes. He pushed off from the wall and turned to face Trowa as he walked past him to unlock the door.

“I’m surprised you didn’t come meet me at the circus,” Trowa said, in lieu of greeting. “That would have been easier.”

“I’ve noticed that people can get intimidated if I turn up in my uniform,” Wufei replied. Trowa raised an eyebrow at him – he wasn’t entirely sure it was the uniform, given the severe expression that was still ever-present on Wufei’s face.

“You could have changed – no-one would have minded you freshening up.” Trowa nodded to the suitcase, but Wufei didn’t follow his gaze.

“It was a work trip,” he said, as though it were obvious. “I only brought uniforms.”

“Of course you did,” Trowa said, pushing the door open. “Do you want to come in?”

“No.” There was a pause, and then, “thank you. I would rather make this quick.”

“Aren’t you meeting Quatre later?”

There was a long pause, a slight twist of the lips as though Wufei were trying to work out both how much Trowa knew, and what would be too incriminating to say.

“That explains why you weren’t surprised to see me,” Wufei observed dryly. “I have been asked to stop by to collect a package for Une, but I won’t be staying long. My flight to Brussels is at 10:30pm.” He gave additional emphasis to the last statement, as if he had been caught out by Quatre previously, and he was doing his best to ensure it wouldn’t happen again. Trowa had to admire his optimism.

He leaned against the doorframe and studied Wufei placidly, curiosity warring with caution – he knew this wasn’t a personal visit, but why would Une send Wufei to find him? Unless she was worried about his brief stint as part of the Barton Uprising giving him a taste for revolutionary life again? Or perhaps she wanted to have a chat about his time undercover at OZ, for one reason or another? She had been a type to hold a grudge previously, but reports indicated she had… mellowed. At the very least, if it were about that, he would have expected to be contacted sooner.

Or hunted down. Forcefully. 

“I knew you were coming,” Trowa acknowledged, “but I don’t know why you wanted to see me.”

In response, Wufei reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a plain, white envelope which he passed over to Trowa. It was oddly thick, but had nothing written on it other than his name in neat print. He glanced curiously at Wufei, but just got a patient stare, as the other man waited for him to open it.

He contemplated not opening it, refusing to perform on command, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he slid his finger under the flap, tearing neatly along the top and fishing out the papers inside, folded neatly into three.

The first page, separate from the rest, was a letter, short and to the point, from the Commander herself.

Come join the Preventers. Name your terms.

There was… a little more to it than that, but if there was one thing Trowa had learned how to do in all his time gathering intelligence it was how to cut to the core of the information. The remaining sheafs of paper were an sample contract, evidence of the work they were doing, the measures they were taking. Specific examples selected to appeal to him.

Looking up, Wufei was still watching him, his face still blank, calm, patient. As ever.

“Couldn’t she had just emailed it to me?”

“She doesn’t have your address,” Wufei drawled, and then, “and she thought you might take the offer better if I delivered it. As a show of good faith.”

Trowa folded the papers up again neatly, sliding them back into the envelope, and then tapping it against his thumb absently as he thought.

“Did we all get one of these? Or am I special?”

There was a flicker of a smirk at that, a slight huff of breath that could have been a laugh.

“Yuy accepted. Winner did not, but he works closely with us anyway. Maxwell…” He paused, looked a little frustrated, and Trowa was suddenly very alert. “I haven’t been able to find Maxwell. He seems to keep moving, and either no-one knows where he is, or they’re all lying to me. I can’t imagine why they would, but…"

There was a flicker of movement over Wufei’s shoulder which caught Trowa’s eye, and as he glanced he saw at the end of the corridor, as if summoned by his name, Duo. He had just cleared the corner and stopped dead as he registered who Trowa was talking to. Eyes wide, face pale, he seemed frozen to the spot.

Seeing that Trowa’s attention had been diverted, Wufei began to glance behind him to see what had distracted him.

“I’m going to see him,” Trowa said quickly, pulling the other man’s gaze back to him, a little startled and doubtful. “After we leave Budapest,” he lied smoothly. “I’m heading to meet him. Send the letter here, I’ll pass it on.”

Another quick sideways glance showed that Duo had fled, and this time when Wufei followed the look with a suspicious frown there was nothing but an empty hallway.

Torn, Trowa tried to decide whether to delay Wufei and give Duo time to put some distance between them, or whether to cut things short and give him less of a head start for Trowa to find him later. Because this… was going to result in some sort of mess.

Wufei took the decision out of his hands, bending to pick up his suitcase, and nodding at him.

“I hope you’ll consider it,” Wufei said, looking at the envelope in Trowa’s hands. “It would be… nice to work with you again.”

“I didn’t know you liked me that much,” Trowa teased, studying envelope himself.. Wufei’s lips twitched again, a small smirk.

“It’d be a relief to work with someone who isn’t freshly trained or ex-Oz,” he clarified. “Even if they do make better coffee than you.”

Surprised, Trowa snapped out of his thoughts to fully see the hesitant humour on the other man’s face, and he couldn’t help but smile back, and Wufei’s lips twitched more widely. There was something slightly more peaceful in him since they had last met. Of course, that had been in the Barton compound, during the uprising, when Wufei was a tornado of conflicting emotions. Clearly the Preventers had helped him find something inside himself. Maybe eventually that hesitance would fade too, and he would start to look fully at home in his own skin, in his own life. Maybe one day Trowa would too.

But for now, this was progress, for both of them.

After a moment, Wufei nodded again, and then left without another word, walking down the corridor steadily and with purpose.

Trowa watched him go, then tossed the envelope into his apartment and pulled the door shut again, before sprinting to the other stairwell, and texting Quatre that he wouldn’t be there for dinner.

Not until he knew Duo wasn’t doing something dumb.

  
  


*

 

It wasn’t a huge surprise that Duo was nowhere in sight by the time Trowa got outside. He probably ran like his heels were on fire to put some distance between him and a situation he would rather not face.

Honestly, it would be easier if Duo didn’t so fully embrace his personal mantra.

Unable to guess which way he would have gone, Trowa settled for the most logical option of working his way out in a spiral from their apartment - as best he could with a zoo and a park in the way. Budapest was a large city, and Duo wasn’t answering his phone, so this was likely to take a while.

Which gave Trowa time to think.

He thought about how, even though he knew without a shadow of a doubt his friend was going to be doing something drastic. Because he knew his friend’s patterns now - more than how they fought together in the war, Trowa seemed to be able to map out Duo’s mood and reactions almost as easily as his own. It surprised him, particularly when he compared it to their… reunion at the start of the summer.

And because he knew Duo better, he knew he didn’t need to be scared like he was in Paris. That Duo wasn’t in that space, that this was an instinctive reaction, not a return to a spiral.

He didn’t need to worry about the Danube like he’d worried about the Seine.

But he knew there would be alcohol. And probably a punch-up. And he wanted to run damage control.

He also thought about the expression on Duo’s face when he had been in that hallway. Heartbreak and pain clear on his face, with the shock and fear. And suddenly.

Suddenly Trowa felt his fledgling relationship with Quatre in its full context.

Saw that sadness and certainty - a loss that he had been too numb to feel, and by the time he had reconnected with his emotions, Quatre had been waiting there with open arms, for him. He wondered if he would ever feel the way Duo felt right then.

He hoped not. And he was profoundly grateful that he hadn’t already.

And he was glad he understood Duo more now, and that he didn’t have to be alone in this.

Catherine had been right. Duo had prompted a change alright. In exactly the direction she’d wanted to see.

  
  


*

 

In the end, Duo had found him.

Sort of.

Trowa had received two telephone calls, one after the other. The second phone call was from Quatre, saying that Wufei had been pleasantly surprised, if a little suspicious, that Quatre hadn’t tried to waylay him for too long and had instead let him leave in plenty of time to catch his plane, and asking where he should go to come help Trowa.

Trowa was able to answer that question, as a result of the first phone call. From one of the district police stations in the city.

The duty officer had seemed a little surly when they arrived, but when Quatre began talking to him in Hungarian rather than English, German or Russian, he thawed and let Trowa through with one of his colleagues to go see Duo whilst he explained the situation to the polite blonde boy in front of him.

The cell was one of the small overnight tanks, designed mainly for people to sober up in, before being bailed out by friends or family. Duo was sat on the cot, feet on the mattress and knees bent as he leaned against the wall behind him, picking at the dry skin around his thumbnails. He looked stubbornly contrite, like a toddler who doesn’t think they did anything wrong, but knows that they’re not going to get anywhere without at least pretending to be sorry about it.

Nodding his thanks to the guard, Trowa strolled in and took up position on the cot beside him, lacing his fingers together loosely in his lap. Duo didn’t look at him. He smelled like beer and whisky, and his knuckles were reddened and grazed.

“Sorry, man,” he muttered, by way of a greeting. “It got a bit away from me.”

“No shit,” Trowa agreed, earning a small chuckle.

Silence fell between them, companionable, as they waited to hear the result of Quatre’s interventions. Eventually, the American heaved a heavy sigh.

“I didn’t wanna see him,” he said, “‘cause I knew once I saw him, I’d stop bein’ mad at him.”

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” Trowa observed.

“But… I dunno. I can’t explain it.”

“You don’t like that he got there without you.”

There was another long pause, and then another sigh - this one resigned and irritated at the same time.

“Yeah.”

Trowa rocked sideways, bumped his shoulder against Duo’s. The same message as always -  _ I get it. I’m here. _

Duo stopped picking at his fingers and let his hands hang limply between his legs, tilted his head back to rest against the wall.

“Sally Po is good people,” Duo said, firmly, repeating what he had said months ago, in Barcelona, as if he were trying to remind himself of the fact. “She’s clearly been good for him. But… I wish it’d been me.”

“It could still be you,” Trowa offered, and at Duo’s quizzical look elaborated. “Wufei came to deliver an offer from Une. A job offer, for the Preventers. There’s one coming this way for you, too.”

Duo hummed thoughtfully, turned back to the ceiling, a little furrow between his eyebrows as he considered it.

“Agent Maxwell,” he mused, testing out the sound of it to see how he liked it, then rolling his head back to look at Trowa. “D’you think you’ll do it?”

Trowa hadn’t even really thought about it. Had been focused on Duo since the letter had been delivered. But as he looked down at his lap, studying the ridges of his knuckles without really seeing them, as he recalled the letter, recalled the documents attached.

_ Name your terms. _

“I might,” he said slowly. “If this permanent big top actually comes through… I dunno, it might be good to have something to take me out of it now and again. Stop things getting claustrophobic. And I could do some good too.”

“Worried ‘bout growin’ roots?”

“Worried that I won’t be able to.”

Duo returned his shoulder bump from earlier.

“Take it one step at a time, buddy,” Duo advised. “All root systems gotta start small. And the biggest ones are the slowest to grow.”

That was true enough. He tried to think of his future potential as a towering redwood, with massive root balls spreading wide around him. It was dizzying and a little terrifying to consider the possibility that he could achieve anything on that scale. It seemed impossible to associate himself with that kind of thing.

And yet…

“What about you?” he asked, looking at Duo, who hummed and shrugged awkwardly.

“I dunno, man,” he said with studied carelessness. “I don’t think I should be signin’ up to the cause to bag a guy in uniform, that’s prob’ly not the attitude to go in with. And even if I did, he’s already got Sally. Let’s be real, I ain’t ever gonna be able to replace her.”

“So, what, then?”

Another shrug.

“Go find somewhere I won’t be third wheelin’ all the time,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess, I gotta go apologise to Hilde first. And then. I dunno. I guess I could hook up with the Sweepers full time?” Duo paused, sighed heavily, and lifted one hand to rub at the end of his nose. “He looked like he had it all together, didn’t he? Like he’d really sorted himself out.”

“He’s… getting there, at least.”

“I need to give it up,” Duo said firmly, and sadly, and the tone broke Trowa’s heart a little. Throughout their trip Duo had been closed off, sullen, or angry - usually angry, channelling negative emotions into a personal grudge against the world - but now he sounded just sad. Plain and simple, achingly so. “He’s never gonna be interested in someone like me. I’m three inches from fallin’ apart at any given day, and all I got to my name is a motorbike and a garage I ain’t seen that prob’ly doesn’t even have any windows. I gotta be realistic. I’m a mess.”

“...At least you’re a hot mess?” Trowa offered, and that got a startled look and then a laugh.

“Yeah,” Duo agreed. “Yeah, I am.”

“I think you should give your garage a shot,” Trowa said, after a long pause. “After all, you bought it already.”

“You reckon?”

“Why not?”

“Yeah,” Duo said thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on his knees. “Why not?”

  
  


*

 

It wasn’t a huge surprise when Quatre had managed to sweet talk the officer into releasing Duo – although apparently it helped that the two men he had been fighting with had been carrying rohypnol, and one of the bartenders had come forward to say that he’d seen one of them slipping it into a woman’s drink at approximately the same time Duo had. The difference was that the bartender had planned to quietly replace the drink, and Duo had instead thrown it over the culprit. And then thrown a punch.

He didn’t do things by halves.

After providing a statement confirming what he had seen, and providing a contact in case anything further was needed, they were allowed to take Duo home. He was given a glass of water and some painkillers, which he took with a bit of grumbling, before slouching off to bed with a half-hearted wave at the two of them, leaving them alone in the living room.                                                                   

Leaning against the back of the sofa, legs crossed at the ankles, Quatre sighed and offered Trowa a slightly rueful smile.

“It may not feel like a good thing now,” he said quietly, as Trowa moved closer, “but it is. He’s sad, but he’s not conflicted any more. He’s accepting things, and now he can start working through them.”

“Why are you telling me?” Trowa asked, stopping in front of him. Quatre tilted his head back to meet his gaze, dimpled at him, bright blue eyes earnest and open.

“Because you’re worried,” he said, reaching out and resting the flat of his palm against Trowa’s chest, over his heart. “And sad too. It feels like an ending. It is, in a way, but that means it’s a beginning too.”

Taking a deep breath, Trowa let his eyes drop to the hand on his chest, warm through his shirt, and tried to settle his feelings. Acknowledged the worry, the regret, and then moved past them. Considered some of the other things he’d thought about this evening, let them come to the surface. He brought his hand up to wrap around Quatre’s wrist, fingers brushing across the bare skin, and feeling the pulse under his fingertips.

It sped up as Quatre sucked in a surprised breath, and when Trowa lifted his head the blonde’s gaze was hot and he had a pleased, saucy smirk on his face that Trowa found himself matching.

“How else am I feeling?” he murmured, and Quatre chuckled, breathless and warm, and it was glorious. Warmth flooded through him and he felt his own heart starting to pound in his ribcage. He could feel the panic starting to rise, but this time instead of causing him to shut down it brought the thrill of adrenaline with it - like before battle, back in Heavyarms, the outcome was certain, he just had to act. Finger on the trigger.

Adjusting his grip on Quatre’s wrist was a split-second operation, sleight of hand, and then one, quick tug and the shorter boy was against him, Trowa’s other arm around his waist, and he came as smoothly as water, his own arm going around Trowa’s shoulders for balance and tilting his head back, leaning in and -

It took a moment for Trowa’s mind to fully catch up and register what was happening, to get past that burst of action that had brought him to this moment and flooded his senses. As it faded away, each new realisation was a firework - how perfectly Quatre fit against him, how right it felt. How Quatre’s fingers were carding through the shorter hair at the back of his neck, how his mouth move with his, sending sparks and shocks through him again and again. How he smelled clean, like subtle deodorant and citrus shampoo, and something else that his sense knew was just  _ Quatre _ .

He released the wrist he was holding belatedly, and brought his hand up to slide into Quatre’s hair, thick over his fingers, thumb brushing against his cheekbone. Quatre’s hand similarly freed, he started on Trowa’s hip before sliding around and into his back pocket, pulling their hips more firmly, and using the additional leverage to press up and forward.

For all Trowa had initiated things, Quatre wasn’t taking things passively - he was determined to make the most of this, and suddenly, fully, Trowa could feel the lust and affection Quatre had told him about, but somehow he hadn’t quite believed. His lips slanted across Trowa’s eagerly, moving and meeting him with enthusiasm, flickers of tongue catching him by surprise as Quatre took control, deepening the kiss and thoroughly immolating Trowa’s higher thinking processes.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless. The blonde’s smile was like the sun whilst all Trowa could do was stare at him, and let the sensations roiling through his body calm down.

If he hadn’t been aware of how deep he was in with Quatre, seeing him with a flush high on his cheeks, hair mussed, blue eyes full of lust and a smile like he had just won the lottery would had got the message across. Especially pressed against him still.

He was in so, so deep.

“Thank you,” he said, instead of anything more eloquent, unable to express everything that was trying to burst out of him.

“Thank  _ you _ ,” Quatre said. “I think you get the credit for that.”

“No, I mean -” He paused, tried to rattle his thoughts back into place, but it was proving difficult, with Quatre’s fingers still stroking the nape of his neck, his other hand still firmly in his back pocket like it belonged there. He was was beginning to think it did. But he was losing focus. “The way Duo’s feeling now… I was certain that was going to be me, and I was resigned to it. But. Thank you. For giving me a chance to… not.”

Quatre studied him, and looked like he was going to say something, to argue, before changing his mind and settling instead for leaning in to press his lips gently and sweetly against Trowa’s again.

“You are very special, Trowa Barton,” he murmured, before pulling away and releasing him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Trowa agreed, in a daze, and watched as Quatre strolled out of the apartment, leaving him, alone, and wrapped in a strange cloud of bliss.

Until, from behind him, a voice sailed out from the crack in the bedroom door.

“You have got no fuckin’ game, Barton,” Duo cackled. “No game at all.”

  
  


*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Kangofu-cb for continuing to beta and cheerlead and support me. And super thanks to everyone who has read and left kudos, and especially for people who have commented. It all means so so much!


	15. Fisherman's Bastion

It had been a simple, throwaway comment at the end of one of the circus skills lessons which had been won at the auction. The poor man hadn’t realised what a can of worms he was opening when he had turned to Duo and Trowa, who had been gamely assisting Cathy, and asked which one of them covered when Cathy wasn’t able to perform. They had both laughed, as though the answer were obvious, and then trailed off when they realised that each of them had been clearly thinking of a different answer.

After sizing Trowa up for a moment, Duo flipped over one of the knives he was holding in his hand and spun, flinging it at the target in a split-second movement. It hit the bullseye with a satisfying ‘thunk’ and a burst of startled and impressed applause. Trowa didn’t look away from Duo, but, maintaining eye contact, flung his own knife which bedded in a hair’s breadth from Duo’s.

The applause was a little hesitant this time, as the crowd was suddenly reading the challenge flickering between the two of them, nervously wondering if a fight was about to break out.

It didn’t. At least, not in the traditional sense of a fight breaking out. However, what followed was a desperate contest of one-upmanship which continued until Cathy intervened. She confiscated the knives with some emphasis, not least because no-one who had attended the lesson was willing to leave until it was wrapped up.

“We should have charged extra for this,” she muttered, snatching the knives off them, and shoving them towards the exit with the students, who were laughing and chatting happily on the way out into the foyer, pleased with the unexpected show.

“It’s his fault,” Duo grumbled. “He won’t admit I’m better.”

“I don’t have a motto against lying,” Trowa said mildly, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll just lie about anything.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck _you_.”

“Any time, anywhere, Barton.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Quatre said, from where he was waiting for them in the evening sunshine out the front of the circus, perched on the back of a bench and looking relaxed. “We’ve got plans this evening. Can you wait until tomorrow before the fucking?”

He sounded so urbane as he swore, so casual and confident. Trowa couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips looking at him. It had seemed out of nowhere that this confidence had stopped being intimidating, had become reassuring. Instead of inspiring panic, it was like a comforting constant - nothing could ruffle Quatre, it seemed. There was something… calming about that.

The last couple of weeks had been a surreal time. All at once he seemed emotionally over-stimulated in Quatre’s presence, whilst feeling suffused with that same sense of peace he’d had when they’d travelled together during the war. It was heady, addictive. He wondered if this would last when they parted ways, when the circus moved on from Budapest, and Quatre had gone back to steering his behemoth of a company through the world.

That was a question for another evening though, not this one, with Quatre stepping off the bench, unfolding himself, hair gold in the sunshine, eyes bright, and the warmest smile on his face.

“Ugh,” Duo said, looking between the two of them, as they smiled at each other. “You two are gross. Go do your plans, I don't want him.”

“So much for living vicariously through us,” Trowa said.

“I was expecting more vicarious sex, and less vicarious… wholesome, puppy-dog eyes.” Duo flapped his hand at the pair of them with a look of disgust. “Don’t have too much fun this evening, kids. Although I don’t s’pose I gotta tell you that really.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us, Duo?” Quatre asked.

“Nah, it’s cool.” Duo turned back from where he had started walking towards the apartment, grinning at them both. “It’s only a few days before we leave, you guys gotta make the most of any alone time you can get. Unless you wanna join me at the Sparty tonight…?” He waggled his eyebrows at them, clearly not expecting the invite to the club night at the baths to appeal to either of them.

It didn’t.

“Remember to follow pool rules,” Trowa called after him as he trotted off. “No running, no bombing, and no heavy petting.”

“There’s going to be heavy petting,” Quatre told him, as Duo cackled in the distance.

“Well. The waters are medicinal, maybe that’ll stop him from catching anything.”

“Be nice,” Quatre chided, as Ashraf pulled the car up to the pavement in front of them, ready to whisk them to their destination.

“Why?” Trowa asked, looking baffled. “He’d think something was wrong if I did that.”

  


*

 

The drive from the circus took them through the more modern Pest side of the city, across the river and into what felt like a different world on the Buda side, high on the cliffs across from the other half of the city. Winding their way up the roads to the top, the city stretching out below them, the sky a rich blue, sun glinting off the windows. The parliament stood, huge and red-roofed, right on the edge of the river. It was as if the buildings surrounding it had stepped back to give it space for all its spires and flourishes.

It was a spectacular view.

As they crested the top of the hill, and found themselves in the old city, the architecture changed a little. In the area around the palace the streets were cobbled, and buildings older, less polished.

Ashraf dropped them off, and was convinced, eventually, to just go back to the hotel instead of waiting outside for them to finish their meal. It was only when Quatre pointed out that Trowa was with him that Ashraf finally looked convinced that there was nothing to be worried about, and Trowa found that show of faith a little alarming. The prospect of disappointing one person was scary enough; the idea that he might disappoint a further forty on top of that put a little more pressure on.

“Most people only have to worry about two parental figures,” Trowa observed to Quatre, as the car pulled away they started to walk through the little cobbled side-street to the restaurant. “I have to worry about forty.”

“Sixty nine, actually,” Quatre said calmly. “All my sisters are older than me.”

Pausing at the restaurant door, the blonde looked back to where Trowa had stopped in the street, after his brain had performed the arithmetic needed for that twice, because the answer had seemed too preposterous the first time. The panic he had _just_ about managed to tamp down on after thinking about the Maguanacs came back for revenge, and was currently attempting to strangle him.

“ _How many_ sisters have you got?” he asked, carefully trying to keep his voice level.

“Twenty nine,” Quatre told him, tilted his head and studying him thoughtfully. “I did tell you I had a lot of sisters.”

“Yes,” Trowa allowed, “but when it comes to siblings, ‘a lot’ usually still means single digits. I thought, maybe six.”

“No,” Quatre said slowly, walking away from the restaurant to rejoin him. “There’re a few more than six. Are you alright?”

“I…” Trowa wasn’t sure. He felt like he was having difficulty quantifying exactly how he felt, as he was suddenly becoming very away of a much broader context for his relationship with Quatre than he had first anticipated.

He felt a warm hand slide into his, and then Quatre was guiding him away from the restaurant, taking him away from the bustle of people.

“Dinner?”

“We can get something later,” Quatre reassured him. “I think you need fresh air right now.”

They slipped through the courtyard of the old palace, with ornate statues and small clusters of tourists gathered around snapping selfies and admiring the sculptures. They carried on through, out the other side, and ended up just wandering down the streets, purposeless and quiet. Slowly Trowa felt his nerves stop crackling, and his thoughts beginning to settle back into place. The plodding of the walk, the fact of being outside, rather than in a crowded, stuffy restaurant, helping him to calm down. Regain control after the shock.

He was getting better at this emotions thing, he though. Maybe one day he would be able to handle these things without feeling the cold grasp of panic choking him out of nowhere.

“I suppose we don’t actually know all that much about each other,” Quatre said, reflectively, after a while, obviously feeling that Trowa was once more amongst the rational populace. “My sisters never really came up before now, did they?”

“I think I took it for granted that I knew everything about you,” Trowa told him, voicing the thoughts he had been carefully putting in order while they walked, “because I knew things that most of the world didn’t know.”

Quatre nodded at that, and silence fell again for a short while. They turned when they reached a towering red-roofed church, decorative and ornate, and Quatre guided him through another square, past white-steepled towers which looked like something out of a fairy tale. A columned walkway was between the towers, stretching along the side of the cliff above the river, cool and shady inside whilst the day was still bright. The Danube was muddy, but sparkling in the evening sun, and the far side of the river seemed so far away.

The whole world seemed far away in the tunnel, as if they had stepped out of real life for a while, even as handfuls of tourists strolled past them. Eventually, Quatre paused, leaning his back against one of the columns and smiling ruefully at Trowa. It was cool in the shadows, the heat not penetrating the thick stone, and the curved ceilings and carved statues seemed to demand an almost church-like reverence, so Quatre’s voice was low when he spoke, and Trowa instinctively moved closer, even though the sound carried perfectly in the ancient acoustics.

“I am… the youngest of thirty children,” he began. “All test tube babies. My father, for all his progress in some areas, was convinced he needed a male heir. But he was concerned about the risks of childbirth in space on my mother, so we were all made in a lab. Ironically, my mother died when I was born anyway.”

“So that’s why so many…” Trowa said.

“Artificial gestation units,” Quatre said blithely, although he turned his head towards the traffic on the river below as he spoke, his gaze turned inwards. “WEI has been market leaders for them for decades, partly as a result of my father’s personal crusade.” He looked back at Trowa, his face open but not sad. Whilst there was a hint of resignation, his expression was frank, matter-of-fact. “My oldest sister is more than twenty years older than me. And because of how… contained my upbringing was, and how restricted travel was under the Alliance, there are still some of them I haven’t ever met. I’ve been trying to arrange it, but with running WEI, and their schedules and families… I have at least spoken to them on the phone though,” he added, as an afterthought. “They seem nice.”

“Everyone I knew before the war is dead,” Trowa said, abrupt and to-the-point. “There’s nothing to prove I existed before Operation Meteor.”

After a moment to process that, Quatre began to chuckle quietly to himself.

“So you have no context,” he snickered, “and I have far too much.”

“If we split the difference, including Cathy that’s only fifteen sisters each,” Trowa offered with a small grin.

“That sounds almost reasonable,” Quatre said.

“You’d better hope fourteen of your sisters like me,” Trowa muttered, feeling a little of the trepidation creeping back. “Although,” he added pragmatically, “that feels more achievable than twenty nine.”

Quatre’s chuckles were warm, and gentle, and soothed Trowa. He leaned back against the column across from the shorter boy, watching the expression on his face and marvelling that he had brought it about. The wonder seeped through him like a fog, and filled all his corners, all his crevices, and smothered the doubts that were still clustering around his brainstem. The effect Quatre had on him was incredible.

He was still getting used to the intensity of the emotions he had been feeling all summer. They still surprised him, overwhelmed him at times. It had been a slow creeping of realisation, followed by a sudden flood that he was learning how to cope with. Quatre in the centre of it, a giddying source of panic and bliss, anxiety and calm all at once. Sometimes it was like a shock of adrenaline, other times like a narcotic curling through his veins.

Would he ever become accustomed to it, he wondered. When would he reach the point where he could find the emotional middle ground, not unfeeling, but not constantly battered by new and unexpected shocks.

“I’ve never had a family before Catherine,” he told Quatre, as bright blue eyes watched him carefully, “and I’m not sure I know how the ‘rules’ work. I know you said we weren’t going to promise ‘forever’ quite yet, but it’s something we’ve got to consider. I was already worrying about letting you down…”

“My family doesn’t exactly fit any normal template,” Quatre said dryly. “Some of my sisters are as much strangers to me as they are to you. We’re still learning the boundaries. If anything, you’re getting in on the ground floor – I should be more worried about the circus, I think. None of _my_ sisters throw knives.”

“How do you know Cathy’s not in your allocation of 15?”

“I’d have to pry you from her cold, dead fingers,” Quatre chuckled. “She’s not letting you go anywhere in a hurry.”

“Where are you trying to take me?”

“Where do you want to go?”

And oh, that had been an offhand quip, a joke, but there was something under it – earnest and emphatic, and there was a gleam in Quatre’s eyes that made Trowa’s heart stop dead for just a moment, before starting back up again at double speed. Part of it was excitement, part of it was fear. Fear at having a clearly defined destination, tapping into the potential future of the circus which was quickly becoming less nebulous by the day.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’ve never planned that far ahead.”

“That’s okay,” Quatre said, always with that smile which made everything seem better. “There’s no rush. We’ll work it out as we go.”

The movement was half a step, half a lean away from the pillar he had been braced against, bringing Quatre closer, brushing against Trowa and tilting his head up to him – an invitation, and Trowa was happy to accept. His arms unfolded to wrap around the lithe body against him, pulling him flush.

Teasing at first, Quatre’s lips brushed his, once, twice, and then the kiss deepened, slow, and utterly hedonistic, but there was no rush. And Trowa would not be moved, fingers laced at the small of Quatre’s back, his entire focus was right there, right then. It was like a mindfulness, all his worries, all his fears faded into silence as he instead found his senses full. The feel of Quatre in his arms - warm, solid, real; the smell of him - fresh and spicy; the taste - beyond anything he could have imagined.

Part of him almost believed this wasn’t real, or that it wouldn’t last, so he felt like he had to commit it to memory for when he woke up, and it was all over. He had spent a long time imagining this, but in a way that was so detached from the idea of how it would feel, inside and out, that this colour was blindingly intense.

A hand curled around the back of his neck, holding him in place, as Quatre pressed up, forwards, and suddenly the kiss was taking a whole different direction. One which was suddenly bringing up a lot of very interesting possibilities in Trowa’s mind, but which probably wasn’t appropriate for a tourist attraction on a summer evening. Which was the only thing that helped Trowa pull back, break the kiss, take a breath. Quatre’s face was flushed, his eyes dilated and full of intent, and he was smiling a very self-satisfied smile.

“We’ll work it out,” Quatre repeated firmly. “Wherever we end up, or whatever we end up doing - we’ll work it out together.”

He had to admit, that sounded like a very appealing prospect.

 

*

 

“Twenty nine sisters?” Duo repeated, and then let out a low whistle. “He kept that quiet.”

“The only one of us with any family left, and he’s got more than enough siblings to form two football teams - and apparently at least a dozen nieces and nephews so far.” Trowa shook his head in disbelief.

The windows and doors on the trailer were all flung wide open, airing it out after they had been inside and scrubbed it, ready for leaving the city. Laying side by side on the roof, the pair of them were watching the clouds drift lazily above them, across the bright sky.

“What d’you _do_ with that much family?” Duo asked, after a moment’s consideration. “Like… What d’you _do_?”

“I’m not really the person to be asking,” Trowa drawled. “My experience is about as limited as yours.”

Duo grunted in amused acknowledgement, and they lay in silence, enjoying the peace. There was a strange feeling in the air - relief, weightlessness at the end of a long slog, and nerves, anticipation for what was to come. It felt like this was a turning point. A waymarker in his life which would mark the start of something new.

Like heading to space after the Mercs.

Like leaving L3 in Heavyarms.

Like destroying Heavyarms nine months ago.

There was something auspicious in the air, holding promise and a potential. Possibly it was the faint smell of autumn on the September breeze - distant but there, bringing with it the tingles of chillier weather. Tingles which could be mistaken for excitement.

“Have you spoken to Hilde?”

“Yeah,” Duo said. “She’s gonna meet me at the shuttleport, then we’re gonna go check out my real estate venture.”

“That’s cool.” Trowa nodded thoughtfully, mulling over the idea of Duo heading back to L2, starting to get his life on track for himself, instead of just crashing all over the place. “Don’t let it go to your head, but I’m gonna miss having you around a little bit.”

“Only a little bit?”

“I said don’t let it go to your head.”

There was a chuckle from beside him, and then Duo let out a gusty sigh.

“Well. I might miss hangin’ round here too. A bit.” He drummed his fingers on his stomach and hummed, before rolling his head to the side to look at Trowa. “What about you? When’s your meetin’ with Une?”

“Two weeks,” Trowa said. “We’re heading down to Bucharest next - I’ll fly back to Brussels from there. Heero said I can stay with him.”

“... ‘S a bit weird, ain’t it?” Duo asked finally. “That we’re goin’ off to start bein’ functional members of society. Makin’ responsible decisions.”

“Weird about covers it,” Trowa agreed. He let his own head loll to the side to look at Duo, and he quirked a grin at him.

He thought about that night, weeks and weeks ago, where they had lay side-by-side like this in the grass, after brawling viciously in the dirt. Thought of the tension and anger that had vibrated through Duo, the crawling numbness which had smothered him. Every little thing had sparked off some desire to fight, to channel sensation through aggression and pain, the only things they could make sense of.

And now, here they were. Relaxed, and open, and bruised but healing. Calm.

“Yeah,” he repeated quietly. “Weird.”

It was easy to remember the panic he had felt when he had thought about the future. When he had thought about committing to definites - to Quatre, to a static circus, to the Preventers. But now it seemed muted, distant. It was still there, a solid pit in his stomach that sometimes would rudely remind him that things couldn’t possibly go smoothly. Things didn’t go smoothly for him - whenever he got settled, things went wrong. He was betrayed, lost everything up to, and including, his memory. Had to rebuild.

But then he remembered Quatre’s words, the feel of having Quatre near him - warm, solid, calm, confident. Telling him things would be okay, that it would work out.

And suddenly things seemed a little easier. A little more achievable.

Trowa wondered if that solid knot of fear would dissipate as he crossed each hurdle without incident. As he began to learn to trust that things weren’t going to crumble around him, worse without the defences he had unconsciously carried for so long. He had shed them, replaced them with Quatre - a different kind of shield.

The day before Quatre had emailed him his schedule for the next year, had taken a copy of the circus’ itinerary for their pitch tour - their trip trying to sell themselves to a local government as a good investment, find a partnership with a zoo or sanctuary. Quatre who had cross-referenced when they would be in the same places, or when either of them might have time to visit. It had terrified him a little. The visits would be wonderful when they happened, but he couldn’t help looking at the dates, his future mapped out like that, and start feeling anxious.

And Quatre had kissed him and soothed him again. Reminded him that there was nothing scary, and that he was there. Would be there for as long as he was wanted. Longer, if he could convince Trowa to keep him - and, he reminded Trowa, he was a very good negotiator.

Trowa believed him.

He tried not to think about the things that scared him, pushed them to the back of his mind, didn’t think about how he’d rather be facing Oz soldiers than the prospect of his own future.

He focused instead on how Quatre’s hand felt in his, and that brought calm.

There was a scuff of feet on the ladder of the trailer, and it shuddered slightly with the footsteps.

“Cathy said I would find you up here,” came Quatre’s voice, and Trowa propped himself on his elbows to watch the blonde head appear over the top of the ladder, watched him scramble onto the roof to join them, with a cheerful smile. “I don’t think this is meant for sitting on.”

“Geniuses can see the full potential of any idea,” Duo drawled, lifting his hand in a lazy wave, but not otherwise moving, “beyond whatever society says somethin’ should be used for.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to impugne,” Quatre said, as he shuffled over to them. “Room for one more?”

“Always,” Trowa said, moving over slightly to make space for Quatre beside him, shoving Duo over as he did so to clear the gap.

Duo rolled onto his side and flipped the lid off the cooler next to him, delving inside to get them each a can of beer, wet and cold from the melted ice inside. The cans opened with a satisfying crack and a hiss, and then Duo was sat up, legs crossed, holding the can high in a toast.

“To Budapest,” he declared, ignoring the cold water trickling down his arm, whilst Quatre and Trowa obediently mirrored him, Quatre only pausing briefly to wipe his wet hands on his trousers.

“Budapest,” Trowa echoed solemnly.

“The city that fixed our shit show,” Duo said, taking a long pull from his can.

Quatre laughed, surprised, but Trowa was happy to drink to that.

He was definitely still a shit show. But he was on his way to being fixed.

  


*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the Sparties in Budapest are famous, and run for most of the year at the Szechenyi baths by the circus. In winter they just move to a different location! http://www.bathsbudapest.com/budapest-bath-parties
> 
> \- Fisherman's Bastion is a set of 7 towers and a walkway built in the late 1800s. The seven towers represent the seven Magyar tribes which settled in the Carpathian basin in 895 and which became Hungary. One of the suggestions as to the name is because the fishermen, based on the bank just below the bastion, defended that part of the city against attacks in the Middle Ages. It is really very beautiful, and worth a visit! https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fisherman's_Bastion
> 
> \- Well, that's the end of the main story guys. Sorry it took so long! What is going to follow is a couple of epilogues. Thank you to everyone who read and commented and left kudos, and especial thanks to Kangofu-cb for being a very supportive beta!


	16. Epilogue 1 - Circus

“Hey, Olivier, have you seen Chang anywhere?”

“Haven’t you heard? Got himself shipped out on an urgent assignment.”

“... Of course he did.”

The other agent spun his chair around and leaned on his desk, looking sympathetically at Trowa.

“He stood you up again? I don’t know why you expect otherwise.”

Trowa didn’t know why he did either. In the year and a half since he had joined the Preventers, he had only managed to get Wufei to spend time with him when they were working together, or on the odd occasion Une managed to catch him before he ran out and removed any excuses of work. Sally had commiserated at length with Trowa about it, but seemed just as incapable of getting the man to stop working and socialise.

He huffed out an irritated sigh, and pressed his lips together. He thought maybe Wufei would have turned up for this, but apparently nothing could cure his social aversions.

“I don’t know why you keep trying,” Olivier commented. “It’s not like he’s any fun anyway.”

“He’s pretty cool when you get to know him,” Trowa defended, for all his irritation still unwilling to hear people dismiss his friends.

“Yeah, I bet he’s got some great party tricks,” the other agent scoffed in response.

“He can meditate himself down to three breaths a minute.”

“...What?”

Trowa didn’t answer, distracted instead by Sally coming out of the far office and spotting him. She waved as he threaded his way through the desks, pulling the envelope out of his inside jacket pocket and holding it out to her as she made grabby hand gestures at him.

“I hope these are the best seats,” she said, taking the envelope and peeking inside at the tickets.

“Well you’ll have room to spread out at least,” he told her. “Wufei’s ducked out again.”

“What? He was –“ She looked around the office, as if expecting to see him hiding under one of the desks, before her shoulders dropped in resigned defeat. “Oh that little shit, I take my eyes off him for an hour…”

“It’s because Quatre told him it was a reunion,” Trowa said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shrugging. “Apparently that’s Wufei’s code word for ‘scramble’.”

Sally sighed irritably, shaking her head in despair, before sliding the envelope into her back pocket and surveying Trowa.

“How are you doing? All set?”

Stood in his Preventer uniform, he felt a hundred miles away from all set, but he knew the minute he stepped into the circus he would be ready to go.

It had taken nearly two years to get to this moment.

Two years of pitching the circus to local governments, of shopping for partner organisations, of buying land and building and fitting and rehearsing. And now, tonight, the circus would open its doors for the first performance in its permanent home.

That Brussels had been lacking a zoo had been something of a boon. That there had been a local wildlife charity looking to build facilities to home animals who were unable to return to the wild, and run breeding programmes, and provide education and training on conservation had been a huge stroke of luck. That the charity had been supported for decades by donations from the Winner Foundation amongst other prominent supporters… was a fact which had come to light afterwards, and caused a bit of friction, before Quatre had sworn blind that he had nothing to do with the charity’s interest in them, and that donations to their conservation work did not grant WEI any controlling stake in their business decisions. Quatre had also pointed out that the Winner Foundation supported literally thousands of charities, and more than that in one-off donations, and perhaps they would be better not cutting of their nose to spite their face.

After that, an agreement had been made to consider the Winner Foundation’s support as a sign of the charity’s merits rather than something to be viewed with suspicion, although when the contract was eventually drawn up, the distinction between the circus and charity finances had been made explicit and iron clad. They would not be taking any of Quatre’s money unless he paid for entry.

The process of slowly coaxing the new circus into life, working with Cathy on the shows, the educational programmes she wanted to run, the environments and care for the animals, that had all provided a welcome distraction to new aspects of his life which had terrified him when he thought too hard about it.

Like his new apartment. A small, basic little thing, leased under his name. Just for him. Cathy and Quatre had both been a little… underwhelmed by it, although Quatre had managed to be somewhat more circumspect in his opinions, Cathy had asked him if he knew he was allowed to look at more than one place. He ignored her. This had been scary enough, even as there was a strange knot of cautious pleasure deep inside him at having a place that was his, and his alone – not intended for anyone else in the first place.

And his new job. His extremely custom contract with the Preventers, whereby he was called in for specific missions or consultations when it was felt his expertise was needed, but otherwise he could spend his time at the circus. He was the ace in Une’s back pocket, to be deployed whenever she thought necessary. It had been a little awkward at first, during his induction. He had been aware of the age difference between him and the other qualified agents, and the fact that he appeared to be sailing in and out whenever he wanted. It was different from when he had worked undercover, assumed a role to gain trust. This was just him.

He had been surprised how quickly the uniform had felt natural, though. How easy it became to wear it, and slip back into his old mindset as he used skills that had been dormant since the Barton Uprising. His new colleagues certainly seemed pleased to have him.

Although, he was a little concerned about Wufei, who seemed determined to work himself to an early grave, and whilst their colleagues respected him, none of them seemed to particularly like him. Trowa had been pointedly trying to encourage him to socialise more, to be less abrasive, and to make an effort to demonstrate their friendship around the other agents to show that Wufei wasn’t all that bad really.

It hadn’t exactly been a success. As was evidenced by the Chinese man’s most recent disappearing act.

Trowa suppressed a sigh, and shrugged at Sally, as an answer to her question.

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he said. She grinned at him.

“That’s the spirit.”

“Barton! Hey Barton, come over here and tell Louis what you just told me. He doesn’t believe me.”

Trowa turned back to Olivier, and saw that there were now three other agents hovering around his desk, looking sceptical as he approached.

“What doesn’t he believe?”

“About Chang and the three breaths per minute,” Olivier repeated insistently. “You guys go way back right, so it’s really true?”

“Oh.” Maybe this interest would get them to stop being weird about Wufei. “Yeah, I’ve seen him do it.”

Louis scoffed and folded his arms, whilst the other two agents – Bailey and Reynard – looked at each other.

“We _have_ seen him do some impressive shit on assignments,” Bailey pointed out to Louis, sounding positively reasonable.

“But he still needs _oxygen_ ,” Louis argued. “He’s not some kind of superhuman. He can’t leap tall buildings in a single bound, or punch through a wall.”

“Sure he can,” Trowa said, before he could stop himself, the opportunity too good to pass up. “The punching, not the leaping.”

The four agents considered him carefully for a long moment, before Louis let out a loud chuckle, reaching out to slap Trowa’s arm.

“You had me for a second there. Your poker face is great.”

“It’s true through,” Trowa insisted, poker face still fully in place. If Wufei wasn’t going to interact with these guys, frankly he deserved what he got. If he didn’t like them thinking he could punch through walls, then he’d have to talk to them to sort it out. “Straight through brick. It’s common in martial arts training to strengthen your bones so you can do that – he’s been learning since he was little.”

“That’s individual bricks,” Reynard argued, although it didn’t sound like his heart was in it, “not a constructed wall.”

Trowa shrugged, his face still giving nothing away.

“I’m just telling you what I know. Up to you if you want to believe it.”

Before they could press him further, he waved to Sally, and headed out the door. He could hear them muttering to each other as he headed out.

Maybe that would do it.

 

*

 

The circus was a flurry of activity, noise and bustle, sequins and makeup, laughter and stretching.

It felt like home.

Stood in the centre of it all, Trowa felt calm in the chaos. This was familiar. This was what he knew. For all the fluster and nerves, all the planning and panicking, they knew what they were doing, there was nothing to be afraid of here.

Except maybe Duo, who was weaving his way through the backstage with a large bouquet of flowers and a massive grin.

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” Trowa told him. “Piss off.”

“What, after I brought you flowers?”

“They’re for Catherine.”

“‘Course they’re for Catherine, I like her better than you.”

“Duo!” Cathy cried as she spotted him, and elbowed her way over to them, pulling him into a giant hug. “Oh you got taller again, stop it. You’re making me feel so old.”

“Is that how they’re saying ‘short’ nowadays?” Trowa asked, earning himself a glare, and creating the perfect opening for Duo to swoop in and be a gentleman with his bouquet of flowers.

“Good luck,” he told Cathy, then turned to Trowa with a broad, shit eating grin, “and you break a leg. That way I can step in and show everyone how great I am.”

“Piss off,” Trowa told him again, although he grabbed his arm after Catherine wafted off to show off her bouquet, stopping him from disappearing. “Wufei’s not here tonight.”

“Oh.” Duo looked like he wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. “Any idea why?”

“Because he’s an antisocial shithead who would rather get shot at than spend time with friends,” Trowa said, quoting Sally almost verbatim. He studied Duo’s face, and sighed. “I could just give you his number, and you could call him.”

“Nah, man, I wouldn’t wanna - you could give him my number, and he could call me?” Duo suggested, looking awkward.

“He wouldn’t,” Trowa said flatly, although at the flash of hurt in Duo’s eyes he elaborated, “he doesn’t call anyone. At best you get an email, a short one, and unless it’s work related he won’t do it first.”

Duo picked at his thumb nail awkwardly, mouth twisted in thought, before he shrugged, and gave Trowa a feeble smile.

“Guess I should take that as my cue not to get in touch,” he said. “If he don’t wanna hear from you guys, he’s not gonna wanna hear from me, right?”

“Duo -”

“I better get back to my seat. Good luck, man. You’ve earned this.” He reached out a squeezed Trowa’s shoulder, and then he was gone, threading his way back towards the foyer.

And then it seemed like barely seconds later, but the music was starting, and they were taking positions for the opening - everyone heading out to wow the crowd, a preview of the night to come. The applause was thunderous, and the lights were dazzling, but despite that he was able to see, sat ringside, Duo, Heero, Relena, Sally, Une and Mariemaia, and Quatre.

Two years to get here.

It was definitely worth it.

  
  


*

  
  


The after party had been a whirlwind of drinks, and flowers, and, improbably, more glitter and sequins. There had been innumerable speeches, which grew increasingly less comprehensible - or perhaps Trowa had just reached saturation point and stopped listening.

That was quite likely, to be honest. He had other things in mind, as he stood beside Quatre and gave up trying to focus on the congratulations before people could get on with the actual business of enjoying the evening. Instead, he had to stand politely and look like he was appreciating everyone standing up to say nice things, at length.

And then there was socialising after that - thanking people for coming, and catching up with them. That was the problem with supportive friends - they wanted to spend time with you.

Perhaps Wufei was onto something after all.

A few hours later, people were starting to drift away, and Trowa was leaning against the bar, suddenly feeling tired to his very bones, when he felt a warm hand on the small of his back, and a voice close to his ear.

“Is it time to take me home?”

The words sent a delightful shiver down his spine, and he found himself waking up a little, turning his head to see the wicked grin on Quatre’s face. Energy reserves he hadn’t known he possessed started to push him into action and he straightened, linking his fingers through Quatre’s and towing him towards the door - pausing only to wave to Catherine across the room before they escaped.

It was a half hour walk back to Trowa’s apartment, but the fresh air did wonders for clearing his head, banishing the grogginess brought on from hours in a stuffy room with lots of people. Instead he enjoyed the quiet, the time alone with Quatre.

It had been six months since they had last seen each other face to face. Between their work and traveling, time together since Budapest had been relegated to handfuls of days on any given visit, months apart, and phone conversations at strange hours.

This was the first time Quatre was going to see his apartment in person, as opposed to a video tour.

This was the first time Quatre was going to stay over. 

There was something strangely different about Quatre staying over in _his_ apartment. He had slept over in rooms where Quatre had been staying, and on one memorable occasion Quatre had bunked up with him in the trailer. Those had felt like transient spaces.

This was his in a way that was… oddly territorial. The same way he had been about Heavyarms. Other people allowed in on his terms.

So, as they headed up the stairs, he found himself wondering how Quatre would take to it. Catherine had never shied away from her opinions, and it was certainly nothing like where Quatre would live - nothing like the mansion he knew Quatre had on the edge of town.

He flicked the light on and stepped aside to let Quatre through, closing the door behind them quietly, and then staying, leaned against it, watching.

The way the blonde moved in any space had a way of looking like he owned it, casual and confident, he strolled to the middle of the living area - a small sitting room, next to a small kitchenette - and looked around curiously. There was a little smile on his face as he turned on the spot, pausing when he saw the shiny, metal lion on a shelf, beside a small stack of books.

“I got a lamb,” Quatre said, moving over to it and gently brushing his fingers across it. “I think Duo made them together as a pair.”

“He said he nearly gave Heero a bear, because he heard about the teddy he brought Relena,” Trowa told him, his own lips pulling into a smirk, “but he went with the eagle instead.”

“Why are you all the way over there?” Quatre asked, looking up from the statue with a quirked eyebrow.

“I wanted to give you time to look around,” Trowa said, as Quatre began walking towards him in a manner that could only be described as predatory, and his heart began thumping in the way it did every time Quatre got that look in his eye, and it was delicious.

“It’s not that big an apartment,” he pointed out. “It doesn’t take long to look around. You could have stayed at my place, you know. You didn’t need to pay for a separate place.”

“I didn’t want you getting ideas,” Trowa teased, not moving from where he stood against the door, “if I have you keeping me, you may start thinking you can take liberties with me.”

“What kind of liberties?” Quatre asked, in front of him now, hands resting on his hips, firm and warm, face tilted up towards Trowa, watching him with half-closed eyes and a sinful grin. “Sexual, I hope?”

How could someone who spent most of the time looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth look so thoroughly ready to be debauched when they were alone? It was glorious, and heady, and Trowa still felt a little like a corrupting force every time they saw each other, which sent a thrill of excitement pulsing to all the right places.

“I don’t know what other kind are worth taking,” he purred, and then Quatre was pushing forward, pressing their lips and bodies together, pinning Trowa against the door.

Over the last two years Trowa had learned that for all his previous actual experience, Quatre was certainly the more confident of the pair, and more than willing to try anything, to ‘suck it and see’.

Which, oh Jesus, even as he thought it Quatre was dropping to his knees, hands fiddling with the fly of his jeans and even if he hadn’t been fully hard from the kiss, he was rapidly making up the difference as dexterous fingers reached into his underwear, wrapping around him and mapping out his size and shape, before pulling him free.

They still only had a handful of physical encounters between them, between nerves and time apart, and Trowa still couldn’t tear his eyes away, couldn’t stop watching in disbelief, each time Quatre leaned forward. Each time he wetted his lips before they opened and wrapped around the head of his cock, stopping his breath in his throat, making his heart explode in his chest.

The noise he made was hard to describe as the mouth slid over him, taking him deeper into perfect, wet heat. Every time this happened Trowa had a brief out of body experience, like the pleasure was too intense to handle and his consciousness left his body to marvel that he was _here_ , with _Quatre_ , in the way he had dreamed about for years but had never expected to actually happen. And then the hand wrapped around the base of his cock squeezed and twisted, and he crashed back into himself with a startled gasp, head dropping back against the door with a thump, his own fingers threading into the soft blonde hair, and tugging.

The groan that rumbled through Quatre at that damn near undid him, and Trowa’s tugs became more insistent. The fact that Quatre sucked in as he pulled off, pressing his tongue along the underside of his cock, made the loss agonising and was frankly just cruel, but he was beginning to realise that Quatre took pleasure in torturing him.

He unfurled his body from where he was knelt, rubbing against Trowa the whole way, until they were pressed together from chest to knee, a bulge being ground insistently against Trowa’s thigh as Quatre’s lips changed their focus to his neck. One hand was still buried in Quatre’s hair, but the other arm had slipped down, wrapping around his waist and pulling them together tighter.

“Bedroom,” he suggested, when he was once more able to form words. His answer was a hearty nod, and a hand wrapped around his wrist towing him across the living area to the door on the far side of the room.

Apparently Quatre had been paying attention to the video tour Trowa gave him when he got the place.

Shirts were tugged off and tossed aside with absolutely no interest in their final resting place, focus instead shifting to try and remove trousers and underwear whilst they continued to stumble across to the bed. This wasn’t aided by Quatre exploiting the superior access he had since Trowa’s trousers were already undone and halfway down his knees.

“You’re not helping,” Trowa muttered, fumbling at Quatre’s belt as clever fingers massaged him.

“I never intended to be helpful.”

In the end he had to catch Quatre’s wrists with one hand and undo his belt with the other, distracting him with a deep kiss before pushing him down onto the bed and pulling his trousers off.

“You’ve got no reason to be smug,” he said, kneeling on the bed. Quatre propped himself up on his elbows and raised an eyebrow.

“Watching you crawl towards me like that, I’ve every reason to be smug,” Quatre told him, “but you could hurry it up a bit.”

Trowa had no intention of hurrying it up. He wanted to take his time and enjoy the view, try and pull himself back under control.

Quatre had broadened slightly since Budapest, filling out into the lean lines and muscles that had been promised. He was pale from a few months spent in space, although his forearms and face had already started to tan from a week back on Earth in the summer. And his erection was thick and red against his stomach, definitely making its interest known, swollen and dripping even without much attention. It twitched slightly as Trowa drew closer, bracing himself above him on hands and knees.

Blonde hair was mussed and tousled on the pillow, his pupils wide with desire and a flush on his cheeks and chest, whilst his face held the ultimate expression in lusty impatience.

“You’re trying to torture me aren’t you?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Trowa said, reaching across to his bedside cabinet, retrieving key items from the drawer.

“You didn’t have to watch me leaping around in lycra trousers and no shirt,” Quatre complained, “and then be polite to everyone for _hours_ afterwards.”

“You poor thing.”

“Make it up to me.”

“The voice of someone who’s used to being in charge,” Trowa muttered, but leaned down to kiss him again, firmly and emphatically, whilst Quatre’s arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him closer. And then they disappeared, there was some fumbling as Quatre quested across the blanket without breaking away, and then Trowa was vaguely aware of the snap of a cap, and a hand reaching between his legs, fingers teasing against his entrance.

Trowa’s own fingers were busy, reaching up to tweak and torment the blonde’s nipples, generating gasps and moans, even as he felt a cool digit pressing gently inside him.

Oh it was a relief to be doing this in an apartment, and not in a trailer. A trailer with thin walls and a tendency to move with them when things had got more involved. At least, that is what they had discovered the next day, when they had walked through the camp and received a number of hearty winks and wolf whistles.

But now he could just close his eyes and push back, relaxing into the penetration, feeling his whole body flush with heat, building through him and sending delicious waves of sensation through his limbs.

Fingers withdrew and Trowa reached down to help guide Quatre into position, a moment of brief resistance before he was able to seat himself fully, whilst Quatre arched back on the bed, hands gripping Trowa’s thighs with bruising force.

Quatre had mentioned early on that physical contact enhanced his empathic skills. They had only realised recently what that meant for sex. As Trowa became more aroused, Quatre felt it alongside everything he was already feeling, driving him to distraction, and creating a feedback loop as Trowa reacted to his lover’s unravelling, his emotions heightening and rolling through Quatre.

It meant things got very… intense. It was taking some practice to map out the limits of it. Not that Trowa was minding that at all.

Eventually, Quatre relaxed back onto the duvet, his fingers loosening. He unclenched his jaw and opened his eyes - dark with lust, clearly holding onto control by a thread - and smiled up at Trowa.

“Ready?” Trowa asked.

“Ready,” Quatre said, and his voice was husky and sinful, and sent a thick jolt of lust through Trowa, triggering a helpless little moan from Quatre. It was repeated seconds later as Trowa leaned down, bracing his hands on the mattress, and began to roll his hips.

For all Quatre took control during the foreplay, trying to drive Trowa to distraction, when they got to this stage he very quickly became malleable, melting under Trowa’s ministrations as sensations overwhelmed him from all sides. He writhed and arched and met Trowa thrust for thrust as he soared towards the blinding peak, Trowa stroking and kissing him gently as Quatre shuddered his way through the orgasm, gasping as Trowa slid off him and reached for the towel.

By the time he turned back, Quatre had already snapped the lid off the lube again and was prepping himself, his body lazy, relaxed and sated, watching Trowa with smug affection.

“You’re getting very demanding,” Trowa observed, although he obediently moved to kneel between spread legs, eyes fixed on the sight.

“Stop complaining and fuck me,” Quatre ordered.

“We’re going to have to have words about your management style,” Trowa muttered, but allowed Quatre to reach down and tug him closer, line him up and tilt his hips up to let him in.

And, oh, for all the blonde was pliant beneath him, melding against Trowa as if he were a liquid, he was still tight, and warm, and _incredible_. It was like his brain spontaneously reset as he sank inside, his breath stuttering and his vision fuzzing from the intensity. It took a moment for things to reboot, but by the time they did he found Quatre had hooked his legs over his hips and was rocking up into him, making it hard to scrabble back to control.

“Quit it,” he breathed, squeezing his eyes shut and pushing his hips down, trying to use his superior weight to hold Quatre in place.

“Make me,” Quatre said, and then suddenly he began to squeeze, tightening and relaxing his muscles around Trowa, and oh when had he learned to do that?

The last remnants of Trowa’s control frayed and he pressed Quatre into the mattress with a growl, one of his hands gripping his hip to pull him closer, his own body taking over the situation and driving him towards the bliss that he had been fighting since Quatre’s mouth had been on him.

An arm wrapped around his shoulders, he was vaguely aware of a hand reaching between them, but his perception was shrinking to the point between his legs where the pleasure was building, building, flooding his body until he could feel it in his limbs, his face, and exploding into blinding, wonderful sensation with a gasp. His senses were overwhelmed entirely and he surrendered.

When his mind could finally begin to process other sensations, he became aware of his position, face buried in Quatre’s neck, cheek against his shoulder, sprawled between his legs still. Trowa’s arms were curled under his boyfriend’s back, as Quatre stroked the back of his neck soothingly. He could feel warm stickiness between their stomachs, and let out a pleased hum.

“Are you back with me?” Quatre murmured.

“Just about. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Not at all.” Quatre let out a contented hum that vibrated through Trowa’s chest, warm like an embrace. “I like it when you let go like that. You’re so controlled all the time, it’s nice to _see_ your emotions, as well as feel them.”

It took a bit of willpower, but Trowa managed to lever himself up on an elbow to frown up at the blonde, who smiled beatifically back at him, reaching for the towel with his new range of movement to begin cleaning himself up.

“We’re going to have to work out a way to deal with this when I don’t have the stamina of a teenager any more,” Quatre said ruefully, then looked briefly thoughtful. “Maybe a cock ring…”

“What do you mean - wait, um.” Trowa paused, briefly diverted by the mental image of Quatre wearing a cock ring, and having to wrench himself back on track. “What do you mean I’m controlled?”

“You know what I mean.” Quatre tossed the towel aside and stretched, dislodging himself from Trowa further before rolling onto his side and facing him, his own head propped on his hand. “You don’t let your feelings show on your face. I know what you’re feeling, but it’s almost impossible to know what you’re thinking sometimes. I understand why you do it, but… it’s nice that you feel like you can relax with me.”

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be sorry,” Quatre told him, firmly. “I’ve spent a lot of time apologising, it became a reflex almost. This is not something which needs an apology.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Trowa’s in a kiss that was sweet, and warm, and surprisingly chaste after their earlier activities. “Okay?” he asked as he pulled back.

After that sex, faced with the gorgeous blonde in front of him, looking at him with affection - still flushed and rumpled from their activities, blue eyes reading right into him, Trowa would have agreed to anything.

“Okay,” he said. And it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is finally here! Thank you to everyone who has read and commented, and to Kangofu-cb for being an excellent beta reader.
> 
> The next epilogue will be a bit shorter, just bringing this into line with the start of Salvage, but I hope you have enjoyed it all so far. I have struggled a lot with this fic so all your support and kind words have really really meant a lot to me.


	17. Epilogue 2 - Pub

The pub Duo had picked was entirely characteristic of him – jovial regulars, plenty of character, lots of weird and wacky touches. He could be less obvious in his market research, Trowa thought, and told Quatre so as he kicked his heels outside the front door.   
  
“’Market research’,” Quatre echoed down the phone, sounding amused, “is that what they’re calling a booze-up these days?”   
  
“I’ve been assured this is strictly business,” Trowa said.   
  
“Drinking business. My favourite kind. Well, I’m nearly finished with _this_ business, I should be there in about an hour.”   
  
“We’ll try not trash the place before you get here,” Trowa promised, and then, “hurry up, though. I want to see you.”   
  
“At least we’re in the same city now,” Quatre said gently. “If I am any later, you and Duo have full permission to come flush me out.”

Trowa couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips then, the warm, slightly giddy feeling that Quatre still inspired in him after so long, particularly when they had spent weeks apart for work. Particularly when he had that tone in his voice.

“Don’t say that,” Trowa said, “or I’ll be disappointed when you do show up and I don’t get to bust in there with Duo to kidnap you.”

“ _ There’s  _ an incentive to be done on time. My staff don’t deserve to face you and Duo on a hastily-planned heist. I’ll be there soon.”

“Clock’s ticking,” Trowa warned, and then hung up, heading back into the bar to see if Duo had managed to sweet talk the bartender into letting them have the darts back.

Evidently he had not, as he was sat at a little round table in the far corner, two fresh beers in front of him, and a distracted frown on his face as he stared down at his phone.

He barely looked up as Trowa slid into the vacant seat beside him, or when he snagged the second beer and took a long mouthful, waiting for acknowledgement.

“Everything okay?” Trowa asked, finally, tearing off a bit of one of the paper napkins on the table, rolling it into a little ball and flicking it at Duo. It bounced off his temple and into his glass. The second one did the same. The third was swatted away as Duo finally shook himself out of whatever distraction had been holding his attention.   
  
“Yeah, sorry I’m – aw, dude, it’s in my beer, come on.” He paused to try to fish the bits of paper out of the beverage, wiping his fingers on his jeans afterwards before he took a cautious sip, in case the taste of napkin had somehow spoiled the flavour.   
  
Duo had calmed significantly since their summer in Europe. For all he had trash-talked his garage, he had enjoyed knocking it into shape and tweaking it to his likes and requirements. He had never had a home before, never mind one custom designed to do everything he wanted it to do, and he seemed quietly, bashfully proud of it. Having something to do with his hands, seeing something that was his coming to fruition, earning money honestly, aside from the money he had been given by the church – it seemed to have given him a sense of self-worth he hadn’t had before. Something about earning an honest living, not living on handouts or stealing to get by, not living under the radar and off the grid, it calmed a person. Trowa had found that too – the mundanity made you feel more real. More like everyone else. Less of an aberration.   
  
Less like you had to prove something. Or fight something. Or keep yourself separate to protect yourself.   
  
A life where other people could acknowledge your existence was more reassuring than he had expected, given as he had spent a large portion of his life trying not to be recognised. But sometimes you needed the acknowledgement to remind yourself that you existed.   
  
Give a plant room to grow roots and it will flourish. Apparently Gundam Pilots were fairly similar to shrubberies in that respect.   
  
“What’s the problem?” Trowa asked again, flicking more napkin at Duo, watching him catch it and dodging as it was flicked back at him. “Turn that frown upside down.”

“Heero just emailed,” Duo said, after another, more confident mouthful of beer. “Wufei’s coming to L2. The new Preventer branch on my colony? He’s heading up the opening.”

“What?” That didn’t sound like Wufei at all. Duo held out his phone, letting Trowa read the email, and there it was in black and white.

What on earth did Une have on Wufei to get him to agree to run the Gala?

Unless… Surely she would have told him? Surely she wouldn’t be sending him in blind to this?

Oh, but if she was? Trowa would pay cash money to see Wufei’s face when he found out.

But, as much as Trowa wanted to be there, Duo was another matter. Four years spent half-dodging Wufei, half-hoping that they’d end up in the same place just to get it over with, the American hadn’t exactly made an effort to move on in any way. He pumped the others for information about their recalcitrant friend continually, but stubbornly refused to initiate contact himself.  
  
“What’s the plan?” Trowa asked, eventually, sliding the phone back across the table. “Off-colony work trip?”  
  
“…No,” Duo said, after a pause, turning his phone over in his hands and staring thoughtfully into middle-distance. “No, I think. I think maybe I’m ready to see him.”

“...Huh.” Taking his own pause, he let the beer wash over his tongue before swallowing. “You got a ring picked out for when you propose?”

Duo shot him a dirty look, and flicked a bit of the napkin back at him.

“Maybe  _ he’ll _ propose to  _ me _ ,” Duo muttered, and it was perhaps only a little bitter.

“Sure,” Trowa agreed, “you’ll sweep him right off his feet, and he’ll forget he’s a jaded misanthrope who prefers getting beaten black and blue to being social.”

“I think I’d prefer gettin’ the shit kicked outta me to hangin’ out with you too. The bar’s set pretty low.”

“What’s your plan to seduce him? Dinner, dancing, roses? Candlelight and a violin serenade?”

That got a laugh, Duo snorting into his beer and having to wipe the foam off his face as he cleared his throat.

“Naw,” he said, getting into it, “you gotta go slow with a guy like that. Gotta make him think it’s his idea.”

“Start small, okay. Casual drinks.”

“Yeah, yeah. Nothin’ too romantic.”

  
  


*

 

By the time Quatre arrived an hour later, Duo and Trowa were hunched over the table, surrounded by several empty glasses and napkins covered in scrawled notes. The blonde was deposited by Farhan only once he had established that Trowa was actually in the bar, sketching him a wave across the room before letting Quatre make his own way over to them, quirking his eyebrow as Duo leaned back in his chair cackling, before leaning forward to scribble something else on the napkin.

Three weeks, he looked so good and it felt like something that had been askew deep inside Trowa was sliding back into place as he drew closer, shrugging his jacket off and unbuttoning his shirt sleeves, rolling them up to the elbow. Casual, confident, precise in his every movement, and always with that warm, wonderful smile.

Sliding into the third seat at the table, Quatre reached out to snag one of the discarded napkins with an amused expression. Trowa brushed the back of his hand across the bared skin of Quatre’s forearms as he grabbed for his beer. Ever-composed, Quatre didn’t flinch away, and his movement was smooth as he broke the contact to inspect the napkin more closely, but even in the dim light, Trowa could see the flush rising on the back of his space-pale neck and smirked.

God he’d missed him.

It had felt strange, at first, missing someone. Even as some part of him had always missed Quatre before they’d been together, it was different having him and him not being there. A bigger sensation, less nebulous and more real, solid within Trowa and taking him by surprise. At least he could retreat to his apartment, his own space when Quatre was gone. He had tried to stay in Quatre’s place, just once, at Quatre’s insistence that it was fine, and it had been... Harder.

He didn’t feel comfortable wrapped in that luxury by himself, he couldn’t relax, felt like that constant presence of the staff was judging him, felt like the reminders of Quatre around the place were taunting him for the distance.

He’d made it one night before he had decamped back to his apartment.

Quatre had been absently rumbling about maybe buying a place together, just the two of them, so Trowa could feel comfortable. Trowa hadn’t encouraged him - they’d move in together when they were ready, when they had time. There was no rush. He would wait until Quatre began mentioning it more regularly - it was happening more often already, but not long enough for the idea to stick. That gave Trowa time to get used to the idea of moving on from the first place that had really been his own. To get used to the idea of the next, terrifying level of commitment, even though he wanted it, even though it made sense, it still terrified him a little.

For all he was more settled in himself because he had a clear direction now (and God it was annoying that Cathy was right), the same, instinctive fight-or-flight impulses crawled beneath his skin, worried at the back of his brain at the thought of anything that might make him vulnerable.  But Quatre - sat next to him, deciphering the scrawl on the napkin with no little amusement, confident and calm and completely certain - that calmed him, saw him through. On his emotional compass, Quatre was True North.

“A picnic on the agricultural levels?” Quatre read, shooting Duo a curious look. “Shopping on Memory Lane? Is this your bucket list?”

“It’s Duo’s seduction plan for Wufei,” Trowa told him, propping his chin on his hand and smirking, as Duo drained the dregs of his beer and caught the eye of the bartender, signalling for three more. “He’s going to woo him.”

“You’re that confident you’ll be able to keep him in place long enough to socialise?” Quatre asked wryly. Duo rolled his eyes.

“You manage it often enough,” he pointed out.

“I’m very persuasive,” Quatre said.

“And I’m not?”

“I bet you he won’t make it through to the Gala,” Trowa said with certainty, sitting back as the beers arrived. “He’ll run before then. You’ll have to tell him as soon as you see him, because you won’t get a second chance.”

“I’ve not spoken to the guy in four years, maybe I’ll just start slow.”

“What, dinner, drinks and laserquest?” Trowa drawled, surveying the mess of napkins in front of them. “Good luck.”

“Ye of little faith.”

“I’ve got faith. It just has limits.”

“Dream big, Tro. The impossible can happen.”

As far as Trowa was concerned, the impossible  _ had _ happened. His life right now was impossible, mind-bogglingly, ridiculously impossible in a way which made him a little dizzy sometimes when he stopped to think about it. So sure, the impossible could happen. But there were long odds on it happening twice.

But then, what the hell, if he and Duo could sort their lives out this much when the two of them were such incapable messes, maybe Wufei could be battered into shape too.

Stranger things had happened.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! It's finally over! Thank you to kangofu-cb's amazing support and beta skills. And huge huge thanks to everyone who has left a kudos and a comment. I struggled a lot with this fic, so it meant so much to hear people were enjoying it.
> 
> This is set probably a month before Salvage, and yes, originally I did plan for Duo to take Wufei for a picnic in the agricultural levels, but I couldn't make it fit so...
> 
> Freedom! I'm free!


End file.
